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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701299">Learning Hurts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar'>Emmithar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Animal Attack, Animal Death, Brothers, Hunting trip, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Young Arthur Morgan, Young John Marston, bad things happen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:35:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right,” Dutch broke the silence, standing admist the room. “I think this will do us just fine – Miss Grimshaw, ladies, will you do us the honor of turning this place into a home? Chances are, we may be here for a few days. Hosea and I have some talking to do. Arthur will head on out, see if he can find you ladies something nice to cook up for us.”</p><p>Arthur felt something colder than even the air about him, strike him in the chest. “I'm gonna what?”</p><p>_________________________</p><p> </p><p>John's only been with them for a month. In desperate need of food, Arthur takes him out on a hunting trip. </p><p>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I know...I am starting entirely too many things at once.</p><p>But I cannot help it. Once an idea strikes, it strikes...</p><p>Just a little something I had to share. Arthur's probably about twenty, maybe a bit older seeing as they just saved John and brought him into the gang. Just to give you all an idea on ages.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They'd been traveling for hours. Following a trail far too small to see, long covered by inches of freshly fallen snow. The sun long disappeared behind thick clouds, miles above their heads. He wasn't even sure why the fuck Dutch wanted to come up this way. All he knew was the man had roused them in the middle of the night, had told them to pack their things, and move on out.</p><p> </p><p>It'd been easy at first-well, as easy as stumbling around in a dazed stupor could be. Slowly chasing off the tendrils of sleep. Packing the wagon in haste under Grimshaw's order, roused alone by her shrill voice-if not the bitter coffee as well.</p><p> </p><p>They'd moved out soon as they could. Heading into the mountains, and leaving the plains behind. The ladies, Annabelle and Bessie, along with Grimshaw sat on the wagon, the rest of them, moving out on horses. Dutch taking the lead, with Hosea close on his heels. Arthur had been given the chore of following behind. And on keeping an eye on Marston.</p><p> </p><p>The kid had been with them about a month. Maybe a little longer-hell, he couldn't keep track. Felt like a lifetime already. The filthy, ganglily little hellion ground on his every last nerve. The little shit couldn't sit still for more than two seconds, and he prattled on incessantly about even the most mundane things. Bad enough that Arthur had to listen to all that while at camp, but all of it made worse that for some damn reason the kid seemed to prefer to prattle <em>at</em><span> him.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why, he hadn't a clue. Even his attempts to chase him off had failed – though the ladies were quick in riding on him for that. Chastising him like he had done burned shit up, all while the kid hid behind their skirts. Ever reminding him that the boy was a part of their family now, and that Arthur had to learn to deal. Precious little Johnny Marston- couldn't even stand up for himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>And Dutch...well Dutch reckoned Arthur was the best person to keep an eye on him. How he'd gotten that idea in his head, Arthur couldn't quite be sure, but Dutch always got what he wanted. Usually, at least. Most certainly in this case. Arthur growling at the kid who had started to lag behind.</p><p> </p><p>“Get up where I can see you-fall behind, and I ain't waiting for ya.”</p><p> </p><p>“Imma coming,” the grumbled reply came. John dodging into his view a moment later, horse overtaking his. The walker was apt for the kid, a fair shy smaller than Arthur's own halfbred. Sleek and dainty and well accustomed to the kid's sloppy handling. John had sworn, up and down, that he had ridden before, but Arthur had his doubts.</p><p> </p><p>He'd like to say it wasn't his concern. And truth be told, it shouldn't be his problem. If the kid wanted to get thrown from the saddle, it'd be a damn good lesson. Of course, he'd get an earful for letting it happen in the first place. Amazing how everything had suddenly become his fault these past few weeks.</p><p> </p><p>The expensive candies Dutch had gotten Annabelle? John had eaten them one evening, crouched underneath the horses. Hosea's new book he'd only read through halfway? Dropped in a puddle while John was looking through it for pictures. That one night the stew had turned out awful? John had added a 'special' seasoning that was little more than handfuls of grass and dirt.</p><p> </p><p>John had been the culprit in all of those, and yet Arthur had been the one to bear the blame. It was infuriating-even if he was supposed to have been watching him during those incidents, it was hardly his fault. The kid was eleven – not some damn toddler learning to walk.</p><p> </p><p>He snapped out again, seeing John slow. The kid shooting him a frown as he turned in his saddle. A bite to his own voice.</p><p> </p><p>“They all stopping-ain't just me.”</p><p> </p><p>And they were. The wagon drawn to a halt. Arthur was quick in nudging Achilles past it, up to where Dutch and Hosea held the line. Seeing just then the cabin that was there. Half buried in the snow and rundown. Long abandoned by the looks of it.</p><p> </p><p>“We really staying here?” he asked, sourly, eyeing the place.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't much like the thought. He'd rather push through, get off this damn mountain. Arthur was never much a fan of the snow.</p><p> </p><p>“Less you plan on freezing to death – night's just going to get colder, and well, we need to find someplace warm,” Dutch chided him, sliding from his saddle.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't looking too warm,” Arthur muttered, following suit. It, in fact, looked quite the opposite of warm. What with the windows glazed over, and ice hanging from the eves of the roof. He could feel the chill race through him.</p><p> </p><p>“It will be, once we get a fire going,” Hosea reassured him, hand clasped on his shoulder. The older man following Dutch up onto the porch, helping to force the door open. Arthur used his boot to kick aside the snow, trying to clear a path for the women. They weren't quite prepared for this type of weather, the three of them huddled and shivering as they attempted to walk through the knee deep snow.</p><p> </p><p>Thigh deep for John. The kid leaving his own horse, Daisy, behind and trudging up after them.</p><p> </p><p>“Looks like a ghost house, Arthur! You think there's dead people inside? Maybe they got trapped up here, and they all starved to death. Wouldn't that be something?”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell's wrong with you?” he wondered, arching an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>It was this sort of shit he'd had to put up with this past month-ludicrous questions he hadn't any answer for because who in their right mind would ask such things to begin with? John hardly seemed perturbed by the jibe, merely shooting him a grin before dodging inside. Arthur was the last to follow.</p><p> </p><p>It was empty inside. Empty and hollow and cold. Fuck was it ever cold. Arthur stomping his feet, a faint attempt to stir his blood. Maybe he'd feel something other than the bitter sting of cold. His hands were much the same – the gloves he had were worn. He'd been meaning to get them replaced, but guess that'd have to wait. When trouble brewed, and it so often did, it usually came with little warning.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Dutch broke the silence, standing admist the room. “I think this will do us just fine – Miss Grimshaw, ladies, will you do us the honor of turning this place into a home? Chances are, we may be here for a few days. Hosea and I have some talking to do. Arthur will head on out, see if he can find you ladies something nice to cook up for us.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur felt something colder than even the air about him, strike him in the chest. “I'm gonna <em>what</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“Food, son,” Dutch repeated, as though it were something simple. “A rabbit, a deer, <em>something</em><span> so</span> we don't starve.”</p><p> </p><p>“We in the middle of fuckin' nowhere Dutch, ain't no food to be had!” he breathed, angry now. “Sides that, I'm tired-”<br/>
<br/>
“We are <em>all</em><span> tired, Arthur,” Dutch cut him off. The man had drawn closer now, voice low for only him to hear, drawing him to one side. “We are all weary, we are all stressed and in need of a good, long, rest-but there is work to be done first. We have to keep fighting. If you try, I guarantee it wont take you more than an hour. You'll be back before sundown.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“I ain't see why I gotta go-”</p><p> </p><p>“What? You think we ought to send one of the ladies?”</p><p> </p><p>“I, no-” he started, only for Dutch to cut him off once more.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Son, listen… I know things ain't looking great right now. But we</span><em> are</em><span> going to survive, and to do that, we need to all keep our chins up and get things done. Then we can all get some well-deserved down time. Now, it's gonna be a while— a few days, at least— and we just do not have enough supplies to make it that long. Not with all of us, not like this. I need to you to be strong, Arthur, now more than ever. I need you with me. You can do that for me, can't you?”</span></p><p> </p><p>He let out a sigh, head hanging. Arthur knowing there was truth in his words. His stomach already tight, sustained only on the coffee he'd taken this morning, as well as a biscuit meant for Achilles. The halfbred hadn't seemed to notice, and Arthur doubted he'd care, seeing he'd had his fill of oats earlier.</p><p> </p><p>But biscuits wouldn't get him through the night, let alone the next few days. Not only that, he couldn't deny the warmth that spread through at the smile he gained from his reluctant agreement. The pride the man wore on his face seemed to bolster him, if only a little.</p><p> </p><p>“Right...where the hell am I supposed to find anything? We cut across this land for the past few hours. You saw as well as I did that there ain't nothing out there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now, I happen to know this area a bit,” Dutch waved a hand seemingly without concern, “There's a lake, about a mile or so south of here. Only water source for miles. You head that way, I assure you you'll find something good.”</p><p> </p><p>It made sense. Arthur nodding mutely, hands thrust in his pockets as he turned. “Guess I best be on my way then-”</p><p> </p><p>“And take John with you.”</p><p> </p><p>He stopped, frozen for a moment. And not from the cold. He whipped quickly around, praying the kid hadn't overheard. Course, he'd never been the lucky type. John's face split open in a wide grin as he bounded over nearly quivering with excitement.</p><p> </p><p>“Does this mean I get a gun?!”</p><p> </p><p>“The hell I am!” Arthur spat out at the same moment. Their voices clashing with one another.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch, for a moment, looked lost. Unsure of who to respond to first. His tone light as he laughed, ruffling John's hair. “Oh, I don't think we're quite ready for that. You just go on with Arthur, see you can help him find a nice plump deer to bring on back home. Get your coat on though-it's a might cold outside.”</p><p> </p><p>As if he needed any prompting. The kid scrambling away without so much a nudge. Arthur still stood fast, watching Dutch with his mouth hanging open. Snapping it shut a moment later.</p><p> </p><p>“Have lost your god damn mind?”</p><p> </p><p>“Watch yourself,” Dutch reprimanded him. The man suddenly draped an arm over his shoulders, ignoring how Arthur attempted to shrug him off. “Look, son-he ain't gonna be a bother. Just...get him out of here for a few hours so the ladies can get stuff done. He's just gonna watch-there's no harm in that, now is there?”</p><p> </p><p>“He's gonna scare off any game, that's what he's gonna do,” Arthur grumbled, doing his best to chase away his irritation.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, he won't either,” Dutch rolled his eyes. “Why must everything be so cynical with you?”</p><p> </p><p>“When I suddenly became a god damn wet nurse,” he growled, “weren't my idea to drag a kid through all this.”</p><p> </p><p>“So, you reckon me and Hosea should have just let him hang?”</p><p> </p><p>He stilled at Dutch's tone, a frown crossing his face at the dark suggestion. Remembering well how the pair had saved him from the noose. Arthur let out a sigh, hand drawing across his face in defeat.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't mean it like that Dutch-jus' tired. Cold, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, son,” the man clasped him on the shoulder once more. “I know-you go now, bring something nice back and we'll have a fine supper, and you can warm your bones. Just...trust me, alright? Things are gonna be just fine, Arthur.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” he drawled, watching as John came stumbling up to the pair of him. The kid all too eager to press his way out into the frigid air. Arthur followed with less enthusiasm, watching as John scrambled atop of Daisy. Achilles was waiting as well, the halfbred chuffing as he came near. Arthur tempering him with a peppermint, gloved fingers working along the steeds flank.</p><p> </p><p>“There's my boy,” he muttered quietly, “I know you've done a lot so far, but we gotta go out, find some food. Then we can get you taken care of.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why you talk to your horse like that?” John wondered.</p><p> </p><p>He let out a sigh, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “Might be hard for you to understand, seeing as horses got more brains than you, but you talk to them-they listen. Better than you do, at least.”</p><p> </p><p>The kid scoffed at the insult, straightening his posture in the saddle. “I ain't stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?” Arthur wondered, raising an eyebrow. “Then where's your damn gloves? You wanna lose your fingers?”</p><p> </p><p>John searched in his pockets hastily, pulling a pair out and slipping them on. A whine in his voice as he stressed, “Ain't we getting on? Or you just gonna talk to your horse all night?”</p><p> </p><p>“We getting' on, Jesus,” Arthur swore, pulling himself up into the saddle. He turned Achilles around, clicking his tongue to follow. Daisy perking up at his voice as she turned.</p><p> </p><p>“How'd you do that?” John wondered, moving up alongside him. “Why she listen to you like that, and not me?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur chuckled at the jealousy that lingered in his voice, reaching out to place a hand on the walker's neck. “She listens cause she used to be mine. Ain't that right, girl?”</p><p> </p><p>Daisy tossed her head in what he could swear was almost an agreement. Though it hardly satisfied John's curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>“Yours? But you have Achilles.”</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't always had him,” Arthur explained, “ only for 'bout six months now.”</p><p> </p><p>“But...” the kid seemed confused, brow scrunching as he thought it over, “you...why'd you get rid of Daisy?”</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't gotten rid of Daisy,” he scoffed in response. “She here, ain't she?”</p><p> </p><p>“But you said she was yours, and now you have him-why'd you get Achilles if you already had a horse?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur chuckled, remembering that day it'd happen. “Well, it weren't planned. See, I stole him off some bastard who was trying to pull one over on us. Dutch robbed him blind, and I took his horse. We were gonna sell him, but I kinda liked him. So he stayed, and Daisy, well she was good for carrying supplies. Then you came along, so I guess that kind of makes her yours now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess,” John shrugged, seemingly tired of the conversation, voice changing as he went on. “So, what we gonna hunt?”</p><p> </p><p>“You ain't hunting nothin',” Arthur reminded him sharply. They'd turned south, just like Dutch has suggested. The pair of horses trudging through undisturbed snow, leaving a fresh trail in their wake. It only furthered his belief that there wasn't anything out here, but dammit, he was going to try and find <em>something.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I ain't see why,” John protested, “I know how to shoot a gun.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, just like you know how to ride a damn horse,” he shot him a dirty look. “Stop pulling on the reigns like that, you gonna pull out her bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>know </em>how to shoot,” John pressed again, though he loosened his grip like he was told. Apparently the kid could listen, when he felt like it. “I been out on my own 'fore I met you folk, done sum robbin' on my own. I can take care of myself.”</p><p> </p><p>“So you getting caught and nearly hanged was intentional, was that it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur,” he whined, voice exaggerated and thin, “why you gotta be this way?”</p><p> </p><p>“Be what way?” he wondered, curious. Though he was hardly listening. Eyes scanning the snowy hills before them. Looking for faint indication of any sort of life.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, like this,” John pouted. It was hardly an explanation at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Look, you don't like it, you can just head on back. Help them ladies with the chores,” he thrust his head over his shoulder, indicating the cabin that was quickly fading from view. “Either that, or keep your yap shut, so you don't scare off the game.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a glower his in his eyes, though the kid had clamped his mouth shut. Following dutifully, if sullenly. Arthur, for a few blissful minutes, lost in the calm of silence. Of course, nothing good lasted forever, and it wasn't long before John began prattling off once more. Filling the void with endless chatter.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur did his best to ignore him. Wanting nothing more than to find something, and make his way on back home. To warm himself by the fire, and get in a well deserved nap. He let out a sigh, breath warm in the air, hovering like a cloud before fading. His face was numb, ears stinging from the bitter bite of the cold, but inside he felt something warm. A bit of hope as they crested that last hill.</p><p> </p><p>The lake stretched out before them. The surface still, reflecting the landscape with acute precision. Arthur wishing, for a moment, that he had both the time and talent to attempt to capture the beauty behind it.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe another day.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes narrowed as he saw the tracks just then. A sharp growl towards John to silence the idiot. Arthur slid from his saddle, pulling a rifle free, loading it. His voice barely a whisper as he turned back towards the kid.</p><p> </p><p>“Right-you stay here. I'm gonna see if I can follow these tracks.”</p><p> </p><p>“But Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“Stay,” he growled a second time, a little more bitter. A little more angry. The last thing he needed was for the damn fool to wander off. He waited until the kid agreed, though grudgingly, arms crossed over his chest as he frowned. Then, satisfied, he took off.</p><p> </p><p>Crouched low to the ground, following the tracks downhill towards the lake. Deer by the looks of it. Hosea had taught him how to track. Signs to look for that would give him a rough idea of when the animal was last through this area. Of course, those lessons hadn't extended to hunting in the snow, but Arthur reckoned the fact the tracks hadn't been covered by snow yet, that they were fresh. His speculations rewarded as he rounded the corner.</p><p> </p><p>A buck – a decent sized one. Drinking at the edge of the lake. Its brown flank that would normally disappear in the lush forest stood out sharply against the white of the snow. Its ears twitching as it drank, listening for any sound of perceived threat. The whitetail raised its head, searching, suddenly tense. Arthur pressed himself against a boulder, calming his racing heart.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't mess up now. If he missed this shot, he'd scare off any other game in the area. They'd have to go back empty handed. It'd mean that he'd have to come out here again, later on, and suffer through this cold, through this long odorous trek. But worse-even worse, he'd have to face Dutch's disappointment. He knew the man was counting on him.</p><p> </p><p>They all were.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur drew in a breath, steadying his nerves, shifting. Knees sinking into the snow, feeling the bite of the cold through the material. The buck had gone back to drinking. Unaware. It was almost too perfect. Arthur readied the rifle, finger resting on the trigger as he lined up the shot.</p><p> </p><p>Gunfire echoed through the trees. A shrill scream cutting right through him. The deer bolted, fleeing in the opposite direction, and Arthur found his throat dry as he turned around.</p><p> </p><p>That hadn't been him.</p><p> </p><p>The thought sitting with him heavily, seemingly frozen to the spot. Thoughts racing far too quick through him, though he was slow in understanding. Knowing that there was only one other person out here.</p><p> </p><p>Another cry got him to move.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur swearing as he stumbled back up the hill. Following the grooves he'd left behind in the snow. Slipping and sliding as he clambered clumsily, desperate to get back. Heart caught in his throat as he saw them ahead. A faint glimpse of Achilles as he took off, form disappearing in the trees. And John...</p><p> </p><p>John stood stock still, face pale and mouth hung open slightly as he stared at the ground. At the red that was staining the snow. Arthur reached him a moment later, stopping, frozen as well. Understanding seeping into him far too slow. Until there was another pained whine that broke the air. It was enough to get him moving.</p><p> </p><p>He kicked the gun aside; the revolver left forgotten in the snow. He sank to his knees around her, Daisy wheezing, legs kicking. Trying...trying and failing to get back to her feet. The bullet gone clean through her neck. She was bleeding heavily, trembling under his touch.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur voice was stuck in his throat, broken and pained as he forced it out. “Shhh....it's okay, y-you're okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?” John breathed from somewhere behind him. “I didn't mean it...I-”</p><p> </p><p>“You god damn fool,” he wheezed, fighting back the tears that were there. “What the hell were you thinking?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was jus' looking-”</p><p> </p><p>“Leave you for one god damn second,” he spat out, hand still resting on her flank. Daisy's chest was heaving, strained breaths rattling through her core. She couldn't even raise her head. There'd be no getting her back, he knew. Even if the could...he swallowed. Something thick and heavy racing through him. Knowing what to be done. Suddenly unable to breathe, feeling sick at the thought.</p><p> </p><p>Blindly he reached out, digging in the snow. The revolver heavy in his hand. He waved at John angrily, snarling. “Turn around.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“I said <em>turn around</em>,” he snapped, motioning with the gun.</p><p> </p><p>There was a wash of fear that played on his face, but slowly he obeyed. Turning so he was facing away. So that he was no longer watching. So that he wouldn't see...it would be hard enough on him. The kid surely didn't need to watch.</p><p> </p><p>“Cover your ears,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Almost gently, though the gentleness was more a result of hopelessness and defeat racing through him. He waited until the kid listened, hands clamped tight over his ears, head bowed.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur turned back to the walker, Daisy still panting heavily where she lay. A pool of red forming beneath her, staining his clothes. He whispered quiet reassurances, even as he readied the gun.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm so sorry, girl.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He stayed there far long than he should have. Daisy's flank growing rigid beneath his touch. Blood long congealed; thick and sticky atop the snow. It was deafeningly quiet, though his heart thundered in his chest. Lungs unwilling to draw in a proper breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>John's voice was timid. Shaken. Strained-all sorts of wrong. Arthur couldn't even look at him, couldn't tear his eyes away from where she had fallen. His mind screamed at him, telling him to pull himself together. That she was <em>only</em><span> a horse, but that thought caught tight in his throat, frozen and unable to work itself free. </span></p><p> </p><p>She had been his first.</p><p> </p><p>A spry little plucky thing they'd bartered for at one of the stables in a town long forgotten. The workers had been eager to get rid of her, almost foisting the mare onto them the moment they'd wandered in. Dutch hadn't been so sure, but Arthur had fallen in love with her. Had taken to her straight away; the feeling seemed mutual.</p><p> </p><p>So they'd left with a new horse, at an exceedingly fair rate, though neither of them knew why. There didn't seem to be a thing wrong with her. Dutch presumed that maybe she'd been there a while, taking up space. A feasible story, for sure. Though the truth worked itself out later.</p><p> </p><p>Turned out she was a smart little thing; she knew how to slip her reigns. She went where she pleased, pretty much damn well when she pleased. They'd leave her fast at a hitching post in town, and odds were she'd never be there when they came back. The first time it'd happen, they assumed she'd been stolen. Until they'd come across her, eating her fill at the market.</p><p> </p><p>They'd paid the vendor more than his fair share, before whisking her away. They'd assumed it was a fluke, that first time. That Arthur, still learning, hadn't secured her properly. Hours spent at camp teaching and learning until Dutch was satisfied with his progress. Until it happened again.</p><p> </p><p>And again.</p><p> </p><p>Until they simply gave in. Had turned to bribery instead. Training her to stay put on the effect she'd get a treat on their return. It worked, sometimes. When she felt like it, Arthur would say. If she had it in mind to wander, there was nothing that would convince her otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>He'd cursed her out as many times as he'd whispered sweet affections to her. His doting on her unmissed by the others who'd warn him he'd spoil her. It was something he couldn't help; he held a fondness for her. And she'd stolen his heart. Still held a place in it even though he'd moved on. More out of necessity than want. It was no secret that he'd outgrown her small dainty form some time ago. And even though he now had Achilles, he'd made certain to give her love. To let her know she hadn't been forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>And now, just like that, she was gone.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>John called to him again, voice tiny and unsure. Though it was enough to pull him out of the stupor. Enough to move him to his feet; joints stiff from how long he'd been kneeling there. And anger; anger he could barely swallow as he faced him. Anger that must have clearly played on his face, given how John stumbled back, eyes wide in fright.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry, Arthur-I ain't mean it.”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Don't see what good </span><em>meaning </em><span>is,” he spat out, his own voice thin and weak. “What in the hell? You was</span><em> supposed</em><span> to stay put, keep out of trouble for two god damn minutes! Where the hell you even get on, thinking to mess with a gun?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“I-” he started, only to stop. Words hastily swallowed, unable to meet his gaze. “I was only lookin-”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh, well as long as you was only </span><em>lookin, </em><span>I guess we can forget all'a this, huh? You god damn fool!”</span></p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry-”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Aint sure you get to be sorry,” he spat out. “You can apologize to </span><em><span>Daisy, </span></em><span><span>see where that get you. Shit -y</span></span><span>ou best save your fuckin' sorries for Dutch,” he growled, “you gonna need 'em when hears what you done.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“You ain't gonna tell Dutch,” he pleaded, a hitch in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I ain't,” Arthur agreed, “you is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Shut it. And stop your damn sniveling,” he ground out. Though he hastily wiping away his own tears as he turned. “Fore I </span><em>give </em><span>you something worth crying 'bout.”</span></p><p> </p><p>He heard the kid suck in a shaky gasp. Something pitiful and broken, though he rightly didn't see it. Arthur was too focused on swallowing back his own cry that so threatened to break free. He was greeted once again by the sight of Daisy, unmoving before him. The reality of it all, still sinking in. He watched as her hide was slowly covered in fresh flakes.</p><p> </p><p>It was starting to snow again.</p><p> </p><p>They had to move. Had to get back. Hunting no longer an option. Even if they did manage something, there'd be no getting it back. Not with just one horse. Dutch would be pissed, but shit- he didn't really care at the moment. He could hardly bring himself to care about much if he were being honest. Arthur still far too caught up in the numbing pain that had centered in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>He shook it off the best he could, letting out a whistle that split through the air. Searching in the vague direction Achilles had gone. There was no sign of the halfbred, and no telling how far he'd gone. The hope he'd return, faint, but there. Arthur had been working with him, training him. Now he found himself hoping those lessons had sat well with him.</p><p> </p><p>“We're gonna find Achilles, get on home,” he finally broke the uneasy silence between them.</p><p> </p><p>“W-what if we ain't find him?” John whispered, timidly.</p><p> </p><p>“Then we gonna have to walk back.”</p><p> </p><p>“But it's so far-”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, you shoulda thought about that before you put a bullet in your damn horse. You lucky I even considerin' carrying your sorry ass back. Maybe you should walk. Give you plenty of time to think 'bout what you done.”</p><p> </p><p>He was tempted. Sorely tempted. It was something he might even indulge, if it wasn't so damn cold out. He'd get a verbal lashing, of that there was no doubt, but Arthur figured the trade off would have been worth it. Though those fanciful thoughts were fading, on the account Achilles was nowhere to be found. Seems like they were both gonna be walking after all. </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swore, stooping over to grab the fallen weapons. Holstering the revolver, and swinging the rifle across his back. It'd take them hours to get home. “Right-we best be off then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“What 'bout my saddle?” John wondered, moving tentatively over towards Daisy.</p><p> </p><p>“What about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“We ain't leavin' it here,” the kid protested, already working to remove the fastenings. “It gots all my things-”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you best be ready to carry it, cause I ain't about to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur,” he pleaded, voice all thin and scratchy, fingers pulling hastily at the latches. Arthur watched as he tore his gloves off, in order to better grapple with the stubborn things.</p><p> </p><p>“It ain't worth it kid,” he snapped, bitter now. “Gonna take us long enough to get back as is; we ain't need shit slowing us down. Let's get.”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I almost got it,” John snapped back, stumbling over the prone form. He started tugging at it, attempting to slide it free of the dead weight. Arthur rolled his eyes, furious now. The damn kid seemed intent on </span><em>not </em><span>listening to him.</span></p><p> </p><p>“We ain't got the time-” he started, only for his voice to be caught in his throat. A new sound on the wind; one he'd heard before, but not for years. His insides clenching as he turned, seeing the form lumbering through the barren trees. He found himself frozen from more than just the cold. A new concern brewing inside of him.</p><p> </p><p>There were few things more dangerous than a freshly woken bear.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea had taught him that. It was a particularly gruesome lecture that had taken place one time when Arthur had wandered off during a previous hunt. Given how frequently the man had warned him to take caution, he should have known better than to linger. But he didn't know there were bears this far north. How could he? With all the snow and cold, he figured any beast would still be asleep. Yet spring was late in coming, and the winter was still holding fast.</p><p> </p><p>A small voice in him figuring that the nastiest of bears woke the earliest. Desperate for food after the long winter slumber. The thing must have been drawn here for the water. Or the blood that coated the snow.</p><p> </p><p>That coated him.</p><p> </p><p>His throat was painfully tight, a tremble racing through him as the bear lifted his head. Dark eyes seemingly piercing his soul. Frozen for a moment before the creature moved, snow kicked in its wake as tore through the trees towards them.</p><p> </p><p>“It'd go faster if you helped,” John growled suddenly. Unaware or uncaring as to what had caused his silence. Arthur slung the rifle off his shoulder, his voice a low growl.</p><p> </p><p>“Get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“Run!”</p><p> </p><p>They'd never both make it.</p><p> </p><p>He knew that. Neither of them would be able to outrun an angry and voracious bear. And bears didn't reason. Bears killed-fought with a vigor that couldn't be matched. He'd seen it once. A pair of them, grappling beneath sun-kissed fields a few years back. Hosea had taken him, had schooled him on such things. And the one thing he'd stressed was to never turn your back on one.</p><p> </p><p>Never.</p><p> </p><p>So he stood his ground. John finally aware of the danger as the creature let out a roar, bolting through the trees towards them.</p><p> </p><p>“Get the hell out of here!” he snapped, satisfied to see the kid move. Stumbling up through the snow. The bear continued to charge; heavy paws torn into the ground. Arthur readied the rifle, lining up the shot. The recoil racing through him.</p><p> </p><p>The bullet found its mark.</p><p> </p><p>But the bear kept coming.</p><p> </p><p>He'd never hunted bear.</p><p> </p><p>Knew nothing about it other than the simple advice Hosea had given. Arthur felt terror swallow him up, shaky hands gripping the rifle tight as he reloaded. Firing a second time.</p><p><br/>Then a third.</p><p> </p><p>Each shot only serving to anger the bear further. And at only a few feet away, the creature stopped, raising to its feet. Impossibly tall, towering over him. A garbled roar that sent tendrils of fear racing clear through his bones. Arthur took a step back.</p><p> </p><p>Then another.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't enough. The animal falling to all fours, and in a quick moment, had reached him. The bear hitting him like a train. The impact knocking him clean to the ground, momentarily stunning him. Arthur was barely aware that he was rolling downhill, not until he came to a stop, finding himself blinking up at the overcast sky above. He sucked in a shaky breath, rolling back to his stomach. Scrambling to his hands and knees, searching in the snow.</p><p> </p><p>Desperate to find the gun.</p><p> </p><p>The growl set hair prickling on the back of his neck. Heart thumping in his chest as he grasped the revolver instead, turning. Met face to face with rancid breath. Strands of saliva dripping from yellowed fangs. Arthur let out a strained gasp, bringing the gun up. Yelping as teeth snapped about his arm. Tearing through fabric, sinking into flesh.</p><p> </p><p>The gun dropped, forgotten. Arthur striking out with a fist, a pitiful attempt to escape. To get the beast to let go. A paw to his right swung into his vision, heavy and solid, and he felt himself thrown. His sudden descent stopped only by the teeth sunk deep into his flesh.</p><p> </p><p>He was on his back. How he couldn't recall. All he knew was weight was driving him down. Further and further into the snow. Crushing him, slowly. It was hard to breathe. Lungs unable to draw in the air he so desperately needed. Heavy weight sitting on his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur spat and kicked and fought, though weakly. Even if he could muster all the strength he had, it wouldn't have made a difference. A fist was no match for a grizzly. He needed his gun. Needed something to cut through the layers of fur and armored skin. Something sharp...like a knife.</p><p> </p><p><em>His </em>knife.</p><p> </p><p>The thought hitting him suddenly. Arthur forgetting his struggle, teeth gritting against the pain as he fumbled, reaching down his side. Fingers wrapped firmly about the handle, pulling the blade free.</p><p> </p><p>He drove it into the bear's neck. Straight through thick hide. Fresh blood streaming down his arm, the bear letting go in a roar of pain. Or anger. Arthur couldn't be sure. He was far too focused on the knife to wonder. Too focused on driving it in the beast, time and time again.</p><p> </p><p>Even long after it was dead. Heavy weight collapsing onto him. Arthur whimpering and cursing and crying all at once. Desperate to suck in much needed air.</p><p> </p><p>Move.</p><p> </p><p>He had to move.</p><p> </p><p>Heels digging into snow, desperate to work himself free. The heft of the bear, slowly falling to one side. Arthur clambered out, stumbling as he pulled back. Collapsing a few feet away. His heart still thundering in his head, entire body shaking.</p><p> </p><p>There were pitiful gasps of air that he sucked through clenched teeth. His body sinking into the snow beneath him as he dragged himself back with his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Arm...</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't move his one arm. There was a surge of panic as he chanced a quick glance down, and spied nothing but red. Fear swollen in his throat. His entire jacket was drenched, and he could see fresh rivets of blood staining the snow beneath him.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck that was a lot of blood.</p><p> </p><p>Surely it couldn't be all his.</p><p> </p><p>Could it?</p><p> </p><p>The question reverberating through his head. Echoing numbly as he pressed against a tree. Teeth chattering and frame quivering. He gripped his one arm tight, pressing it close to his chest. Watching as the blood welled, pooling on already saturated fabric.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed....odd. Strange in a way. He figured it would hurt. And by all rights it <em>should</em> hurt. Shit, just looking at it hurt. But there was a concerning lack of pain. Something sitting funny with him, that told him things weren't quite right.</p><p> </p><p>Because he couldn't feel his arm. Couldn't feel much of anything, if he was being honest. The bite of the cold, long gone. The hunger that had been a constant companion, faded. Dissipated. The roiling ache he knew should be there, non-existent.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he felt warm.</p><p> </p><p>Warm.</p><p> </p><p>And tired.</p><p> </p><p>Pressed tight against the tree; a blanket of snow slowly beginning to cover him. Hiding the evidence of all that had transpired. He let his eyes drift close. Weighed upon by the strange warmth that slowly enveloped him.</p><p> </p><p>Drawn into the depths of an unknowingly, dangerous slumber.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)</p><p>Yes, I am fully aware that I am a monster...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Arthur was fourteen, he'd gotten into a fight.</p><p> </p><p>A bad one.</p><p> </p><p>Bad enough, that even after all these years, he could still remember the pain. It hadn't been anything more than a sleight of hand gone wrong. The fella, a big, burly drunken man that Arthur had tried to swindle had caught onto him. And he hadn't taken too kind to it. Arthur had ran, of course, because that man had been nearly thrice his size and mean as a hungry cougar. Survival had been his first instinct, as it had been for the past few years. He was used to dodging, hiding and scampering. Not that he was above fighting, standing up for himself when it came down to it.</p><p><br/>But being skin and bones, there wasn't much he could do. All that proven to be true as the man had grabbed him. He had pinned Arthur up against an old run down building in a forgotten alley, and let loose. No longer intent on getting his possessions back. More focused on making him hurt. On teaching a lesson. He'd beaten Arthur till he was little more than a mangled corpse, a pathetic whimpering thing he'd dropped into the mud.</p><p> </p><p>Then he'd gone in for the kill.</p><p> </p><p>Or at least, he had tried to.</p><p> </p><p>It never gotten that far. A pair of strangers had stepped in. Had pulled the brute off him. Had done away with the bastard, making sure that he'd never hurt anyone again. Then one of them had helped Arthur to his feet, had asked him if he was alright. Arthur hadn't even answered; he wasn't in the mind to. Instead he'd lashed out, catching the stranger unaware, and he'd taken off.</p><p> </p><p>But not before robbing him.</p><p> </p><p>He could remember the satchel, sitting heavy in his hands the next day when the throb of agony had quieted enough for him to take stock of his winnings. Nausea and pain his faithful companions as he sorted through the take. Bitter ache chased away by the promise of survival. There had been enough in that satchel to to keep him going for a while. Enough to put some food in his belly. Maybe enough to fill his frame out a little. Wistful dreams that were little more than fantasies; dreams that lingered and, at least marginally, soothed his battered bones.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't even heard them approach. Too lost in fanciful illusions that he hadn't even known he had company. Not until the satchel was torn from his hands, fingers grasping empty air. He'd let out a startled cry, scurrying to his feet. Meeting them face to face; the same pair from before, staring at him. Amused? Upset? He couldn't tell.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't remember much of that meeting. Mostly that he'd been angry. He had demanded that they give him back his things.</p><p> </p><p>“Really wasn't yours to begin with, now was it?” the younger of the two chuckled, rifling through the contents; making sure nothing had been taken.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur had watched, his heart sinking at the thought of all that money, gone. He was in no shape to be trying again anytime soon. They might as well put a bullet in him now; spare him the trouble of starving to death.</p><p> </p><p>“Wasn't really ours either, Dutch,” the older of the two countered, before turning towards him. There had been a more compassionate look to him; warmer than the other, who'd merely rolled his eyes and kept rifling. “You looking a little rough there. How you holding up?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't none of your damn business,” Arthur had ground out bitterly. He'd seen what compassion could do. What little it was good for—fucking nothing, as far as he was concerned. It surely hadn't helped him none. Arthur had watched them, waiting to see what they'd do to him because there was always <em>something. </em>Always a catch. Always a punishment.</p><p> </p><p>But...nothing. They hadn't run him through like he'd expected. Hadn't dragged him off to the law. Hadn't even lifted a finger against him, really. Rather they invited him along. A promise of safety; of a hot meal and dry clothes. He'd gone with them, for no other reason than he'd nothing else to lose. Maybe if he was truly lucky, they'd do away with him. Put him out of his misery. But they hadn't. Instead they'd patched him up, got him clean for the first time in years. He'd found a place among them, his past little more than dark memories.</p><p> </p><p>And while the hurt from that ordeal had faded over time, it was never truly gone. That encounter had been burned into his memory. It was something he'd never quite forgotten. He could easily remember the pain, more than anything. It had been more vibrant than their kindness. More potent than the promise in that satchel. Encumbering his dreams for years to come.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, he hadn't hurt like that since.</p><p> </p><p>Not until now.</p><p> </p><p>He woke with a start.</p><p> </p><p>To a jarring motion. To blinding pain that consumed him, worse than that nasty fight by a thousand fold. It stole his breath, pitiful gasps that were sucked in through clenched teeth. The cold air burning his throat, setting his lungs aflame. A curse that was more akin to a whimper breaking free, and tears in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Get the fuck off me.”</p><p> </p><p>He tried to sound angry. Tried to muster up the strength required to seem fearsome. To ward off the assault. All of it failed, tiny hands undeterred as they wound themselves in the fabric of his coat, trying to pull him. To sit him upright. Arthur let out a hiss; it was about the only thing he could muster.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>If he had his wits about him, if he had the wherewithal to move, he <em>would </em><span>have lashed out</span>. Would have knocked the fool upside the head, leave him hurting and bloodied, just to see how much <em>he</em> liked it. The hellion was damn lucky he didn't have it in him.</p><p> </p><p>Because even someone as stupid as John should know better.</p><p> </p><p><em>Shaking him?</em> Actually shaking him?</p><p> </p><p>Hurt as Arthur was, damn near dead in his mind, and here was John, foolish enough to try goddamned shaking him, as though that was going to solve anything. He sucked in another sharp breath, teeth ground against the pain.</p><p> </p><p>“Get off me, kid,” his voice was a lot raspier than he remembered. Rough. Though it was a funny notion he choose not to dwell on. Annoyed instead, as his warning went wholly unheeded. Hands still gripping him tight, though at least he'd stopped the shaking. Opting to snivel instead. A tremor in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“A-Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>His forced his eyes open. Sluggish and slow. Greeted first by white, a cascade of snow filtering through the trees. And John...John crouched mere inches in front of him. The kid's face contorted in all sorts of panic. All consuming. Streaks of tears cascaded down his cheeks, leaving dirty tracks in their wake.</p><p> </p><p>He felt a twinge of pity. For a moment, he felt sorry for the kid, which in itself was a strange new emotion he had yet to experience. Though it was quickly drowned out by something else; something raw and bitter, though strangely warm all at the same time. Because he could clearly remember telling John to run. Why he hadn't shouldn't have surprised him, truly.</p><p> </p><p>The damn kid <span>never did listen. </span></p><p> </p><p>Though for once in his life, Arthur was glad he hadn't. He would take that admission to his grave, which admittedly didn't seem to far off in the future, given the circumstances. He sucked in another breath, steeling himself against the pain, doing his best to put a front on.</p><p> </p><p>Anger. Sourness. Cynicism. Doing his best to pretend that he wasn't dying.</p><p> </p><p>“Hell you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“You dyin', Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>Guess the kid wasn't as stupid as he thought. Arthur forced his eyes open. Unaware they'd closed in the first place. Staring at John for one, long moment before answering. His words slurred as he shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't no one dying, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>More a force of habit than conviction. A pretty little lie dancing in his head. He didn't want to die, that was for certain. But he figured they were well past wanting by now.</p><p> </p><p>“T-that's a lot of blood,” John's lip quivered. As though Arthur didn't already know.</p><p> </p><p>It certainly was a <em>lot</em> of blood. Bright red and crimson. Seeping into the snow in thick beads. Felt like it was measuring how quick his life was fading away. Arthur swallowed, his throat dry. He grit his teeth; both against the pain and the blooming panic.</p><p> </p><p>Panic wouldn't do either of them any good right now, and if he could help it, he damn sure wasn't going to die in front of John. His mind worked, sluggish and disjointed as it was. Trying to figure out what needed to be done.</p><p> </p><p>Blood was bad; that much he knew. Hosea would have said as much. Dutch as well. Bessie, Annabelle, Susan...any of them could have told him that in a heartbeat. They'd been in scrapes before, and regardless of the hurt, stopping the blood had always been the first priority.</p><p> </p><p>Always.</p><p> </p><p>God he missed them.</p><p> </p><p>In that moment, he would’ve done just about anything to have them here. Any of them. <em>All</em> of them. Mostly Dutch and Hosea, if there was any kindness left in the universe for someone like him. He could really use Hosea’s gentle words, or Dutch’s tall tales to fill the too-still air. But Bessie, or Grimshaw, or Annabelle would do. Anyone who could stop the hurt. Anyone who could help him.</p><p> </p><p>Or help John, he guessed, if he himself was beyond helping. The kid really was losing it.</p><p> </p><p>He recognized the childish nature of the want. He couldn’t help it; couldn’t staunch it. He just wanted someone there with him. He’d feel better, he reckoned. Less scared. Not that he’d ever admit to it.</p><p> </p><p>But they weren’t there. Couldn’t be. They were miles away, unaware of what had transpired; what hell they had faced. They might never know, Arthur speculated numbly, if things went particularly sour.</p><p><br/>Even if they did know— somehow— there was nothing any of them could do now. Not for him. He knew that. He swallowed back that pointless hope.</p><p> </p><p>He had John, as the kid kept reminding him, shaking him, poking him, whimpering in his ear like a damn pup. Less comfort than obligation. Arthur let out a sigh, a quick, sharp thing, and shifted where he sat. It was settled then...there was just the two of them here. One of them ought to be doing something, he reasoned.</p><p> </p><p>“Guess...guess we oughta stop it, then,” he murmured, his words slurring. Said as though piecing himself back together were a chore; an everyday burden.</p><p> </p><p>“H-how?” John whined, voice stretched. “Arthur? How? How we gonna—I don't got no-no needles or nothin'. Arthur, how we gonna-”</p><p> </p><p>He let the kid ramble while he tried to figure that out. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath. The bitter cold burning his throat as he thought. His mind was aflutter, but vague. Unsure. Like stumbling through thick fog.</p><p> </p><p>Sluggish.</p><p> </p><p>Blood loss, his mind supplied, albeit achingly slow, did that to people. He'd seen it before. Or perhaps someone had told him. He couldn't rightly remember.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur!” John yelped again, grabbing at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit!” he spat out, more a growl than anything else as the pain raced through him. “The hell you do that for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Y-you got quiet, you—you—,” his chest heaved uneasily. Utterly close to losing it.</p><p> </p><p>“Christ,” he swore, resting his head back against the tree. “Jus' was thinkin', is all.”</p><p> </p><p>He tried to calm himself, seeing the look on the kid's face. The hurt that was so clearly plastered there. John <em>was</em> trying. Arthur figured that was saying a lot. It surely was something new. He was trying so damn hard to keep it together it was almost amusing. Almost. The kid drew in a breath. His voice surprisingly strong when he spoke again. Wondering once more.</p><p> </p><p>“What we gonna do?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur blinked slowly at that. Still grasping for an answer he didn't have. Surely they had to do something. The thought of doing nothing hadn't crossed his mind as a possibility. Still he shook his head, a sigh in resignation.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't-ain't too sure,” he finally answered, unable to come up with a better response. Unable to come up with anything besides dull, heavy thoughts that didn't sit quite right with them.</p><p> </p><p>They'd need...bandages, probably. His arm would need stitching, of that he was certain. But John was right, they didn't have that sort of things with them. Not that he trusted the kid with a needle. Even so, those weren't the usual sort of stuff they carried around. So bandages it was. Or would be, if they had any. Vague memories recalling he'd had some stowed away with Achilles...wherever the hell his horse had gone. As for John's...well, he was sure the kid had dug those all out, replaced them all with candy and sweets.</p><p> </p><p>Peppermints, he'd said, for Daisy. Though Arthur had caught him more than once sneaking the treats for himself. Not that it mattered. Peppermints wouldn't do anything for him here. Other than chase away the sourness that had settled on his tongue. Perhaps the least concerning thing at the moment. Right now they needed bandages.<em> Something</em> to wrap his arm. Fabric of some sort.</p><p> </p><p>He toyed, briefly with the idea of removing his jacket; cutting that down, maybe. Wrap him up tight. Maybe tight enough to stave away freezing long enough to get him back...but probably not.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered which would take longer; bleeding or freezing to death. Again his gaze drifted down to the pools of blood that had melted little pits into the snow around him.</p><p> </p><p>Could someone die from two things at once?</p><p> </p><p>He wasn't sure, though he had the strangest sensation that he might find out before long. He blinked, owlishly as John called him again. A soft whimper to the kid's voice. Arthur tore his gaze away from the bloodied mess, looking back his way.</p><p> </p><p>“S alright,” he muttered, doing his best to gather himself. “Jus' gotta find somethin' to wrap my arm, then we'll head on home.”</p><p> </p><p>He still hadn't a clue what. Still wasn't convinced he'd even make it back. But dammit, he was going to try. He for sure wasn't going to leave the kid out here, on his own. John, for all his credit, choked back a whimper, shuffling in the snow.</p><p> </p><p>“Like what? We ain't got no bandages,” he sniffed, all but confirming Arthur's earlier thoughts about what, precisely, had been stowed with Daisy. Though his listless mind provided the small sliver of understanding that it needn't necessarily be bandages. Any fabric would do, really...</p><p> </p><p>“You still gots that jacket 'sea gave you?”</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, he wasn't surprised to see the kid shake his head. Arthur could fully remember Hosea foisting an extra jacket on him; they'd all taken turns, trying to keep after him. John was more apt to lose stuff, constantly forgetting things, or just plain choosing not to keep track of shit.</p><p> </p><p>He'll, it'd taken them a week just to convince the kid to keep his boots on. John all too happy to run barefoot, claiming it was faster, all the while whining about his feet being sore. Arthur knew that he himself wasn't all that smart, but when it came to John? Well, he was fair share more versed in the manner of thought then the kid had any hope to ever be.</p><p> </p><p>“Why? You cold?” he wondered, sitting up suddenly, remembering. “I gots a blanket, the one on Daisy! I'll go on and get it!”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, John,” Arthur let out a sigh as he watched the kid scramble off, clambering up the hill. He let him go, to worn and weary to try and stop him. To explain he wasn't cold; not any kind of cold a blanket could fix, at least. While the bite of the snow had started to seep back into his bones, there wasn't much to be done about it. A blanket might chase it away, but the chill ran deeper than that. What good would a blanket do if he bled out beneath it?</p><p> </p><p>His mind, sluggish as it was, tried to convince him otherwise. Telling him, like a dull sound echoing in the distance, that a blanket was perhaps the best thing aside from bandages. A blanket they could cut down into strips. It'd be heftier than a jacket, more useful. Harder to tie, but easier to wind.</p><p> </p><p>It'd give him a chance. He forced his eyes open, somewhat aware he'd been drifting once more. Staying awake was slowly becoming a challenge. And he was starting to grow concerned. Wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him, seeing things that weren't there. Hearing sounds he shouldn't. A distinct whinny, notes carried on the wind.</p><p> </p><p>And John, toddling back down the hill. Reigns in hand, pulling more than leading. Vexed huffs filling the silence, wafts of air, of heavy hot breaths flaring from the horse's nostrils as the halfbred stepped uneasily after the kid.</p><p> </p><p>“I found him, Arthur!” he hollered, near dragging the horse behind him, “I found Achilles, and I ain't even shot him or nothin'!”</p><p> </p><p>Said in such a manner that the feat was something to be proud of. Even so, Arthur could feel the corners of his mouth turn upward. Feeling...content in spite of the situation. “You did good, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>Achilles was miffed, if anything else. Hoof digging into the snow as he tossed his head. He must have wandered back, albeit slowly. Retracing steps to try and find his way through the approaching storm. However it happened, Arthur was glad to see him here. His dapple-grayed skin was nearly lost in the snowfall, flakes peppering his hide.</p><p> </p><p>“It's good, right?” John wondered, sitting back near him. “Achilles will take us back and Dutch n' Hosea can make you all better, can't they?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure they can,” Arthur drawled, a pit of warmth forming in his stomach at the mention of them. What he would give to be back at the cabin now. Warm by the fire, watched over by the pair. Fussed after by Grimshaw, and spoiled with Bessie's fine cooking. Listening to one of Annabelle's stories. It was all so close now he could nearly taste it.</p><p> </p><p>But not yet.</p><p> </p><p>First...first they needed to see to things. Arthur swallowing, knowing that what would come surely wouldn't be pleasant. But if he wanted to make it back, they needed to see to his arm. Before it was too late.</p><p> </p><p>“You're gonna hafta get in his saddle bags; got some bandages in one of the pouches. Just watch so that he don't kick you. Ain't got it in me to save your sorry ass from a kickin' right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Not that he expected Achilles to. The horse had been well mannered these past months, but ultimately he was still new. And he was still agitated, still wound up and fairing none the better. Not with all the blood about them, the coppery tang surely spooking him more. Yet the halfbred didn't fuss as John clambered up to him. Stretched up on tiptoes to reach inside, rifling around.</p><p> </p><p>It took him but a moment, John racing back to him, the goods dropped in his lap. “You gonna be okay, right Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>“Gonna be jus' fine,” he swallowed, one hand closing around the bandages. Fumbling. Cursing his lack of dexterity. He gave in with a sigh, head falling back against the tree. Shit, it was getting hard to stay focused.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>He blinked, watching the kid. Managing to lift his head once more. The idea small, but stirring in his head. Not that he liked it much, but what other choice did he have?</p><p> </p><p>“Gonna need you to help; gotta wrap my arm.”</p><p> </p><p>He was surprised, or rather, shocked he supposed, to see John move without hesitation. The kid unwrapping the bundled, stretching the material out. Fabric held easily in his hands, fingers red from blood.</p><p> </p><p>Not blood...from the cold. Arthur realizing just then his hands were bare. He felt a growl build up inside of him. A touch of anger, of annoyance.</p><p> </p><p>“Hell are your gloves?”</p><p> </p><p>He didn't remember John taking them off. Not recently. He'd had them just a moment ago..hadn't he? But no...not if they were already that shade of red.</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't remember,” John whispered, stilling his movements. “I ain't...it's...I—”</p><p> </p><p>“Jus'...nevermind,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. A problem they'd worry about in a moment. “Get on with it.”</p><p> </p><p>He figured it'd hurt. It always did, patching up wounds. They stung, or throbbed, or stung and throbbed all at once. But this...this was a whole new level of pain he'd hadn't the pleasure of experiencing before. Something so sharp and tender it stole his breath away. His pained cry startling John, who flew back as though he'd been burned.</p><p> </p><p>“A-Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>He drew in a breath, biting his lip. Eyes closed as the wash of pain slowed to a thrum. Shit...as bad as it was, he must have broke it. He couldn't see any other explanation. The limb still sat heavy against his chest, though fresh blood had worked its way through, mixing with the old.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on kid,” he breathed, once he found his voice. “Let's get it over with.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you hurt-”</p><p> </p><p>“Course I'm hurt,” he rasped. “Got damn near eaten by a bear. You think I'd be just dandy after that? Christ.”</p><p> </p><p>“It's just makin' it worse,” came the mumbled reply. The kid on the verge of tears.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking hell. They didn't both need to be crying. Arthur gave himself a moment; a single moment to collect his thoughts. To soothe his temper. His voice, surprisingly soft when he spoke next.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, John—It's gonna hurt, ain't much we can do about that. But we gotta wrap it, gotta stop it from bleedin' me empty. So you work fast, and you don't stop, no matter what. You hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“You hear me, John?”</p><p> </p><p>“I hear you,” he whispered, voice timid and withdrawn.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Arthur let out a breath, steeling himself for what was about to come. “On three, then.”</p><p> </p><p>He never much liked counting. Anticipating some sort of disaster to come was never the highlight of his day. And not much changed here. John moving quick as he could, wrapping slopping strands of cloth about the immobile limb, all the while Arthur nearly bit through his own lip in attempt to stifle the scream that as near wrenched from his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm done,” John sputtered, half in tears as well. “I'm done-I'm sorry, I...”</p><p> </p><p>“Tie it off,” Arthur wheezed, words caught in his throat. “Tight.”</p><p> </p><p>He felt, rather than saw, the kid fumble with the cloth. A new wince of pain as he felt it pull tight. He felt...sick almost. His stomach twisted into knots, held fast by the anguish. The few, stunted breaths he managed to pull in hardly helped. His body, rigid and tense as it dealt with the sudden trauma.</p><p> </p><p>Vaguely he could hear John whimpering, the kid talking. Rambling. A bunch of shit he couldn't discern but his voice helped. It gave him something to focus on. It helped to distract him from the pain.</p><p> </p><p>He'd kill for a whiskey. A drop of gin. Even moonshine, which in his experience was horrible wretched stuff. He’d tried it once and threw it right back up— damn vile shit burned both ways. Right now...right now he was just about open to anything to help. Though they were decidedly lacking anything like that. Arthur slowly relaxing, the tension easing. The pain, dwindling into something more manageable. Something less intrusive.</p><p> </p><p>He was met by John's worried gaze when he opened his eyes. The kid, watching him still, his own eyes wide and frightened.</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you were dyin',” he whispered, a pitiful choked sound. “Thought that...thought I killed you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Gonna take more than that to do me in,” Arthur reassured him quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't mean to hurt you-”</p><p> </p><p>“You did good, John,” Arthur cut him off. “This...this is good. And we gonna get on out of here, get back to the others. All's gonna work out, you'll see.”</p><p> </p><p>“What 'bout your leg?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur felt his brow furrow, confusion striking him. “What you talking 'bout?”</p><p> </p><p>Though he followed John's gaze down to where the kid was watching. Seeing the red stain that blossomed from under his leg. Arthur stared, almost detachedly. Wondering if all that blood was even his. It couldn't possibly be...and how did he not notice the gash on his leg until now?</p><p> </p><p>He reached out with his good hand, prodding the swollen flesh. Hissing at the contact. Yup...it surely was his. Not some nightmarish delusion brought on by his addled brain. Arthur let out a groan, knowing what had to be done.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't as bad. Not as bad as his arm had been. John seemed to have learned, had worked faster. Gentler. Or perhaps his leg wasn't as desperate as he thought. Either way, he considered it a blessing. Some small win in this piss poor hand he'd suddenly been dealt.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it better?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur let out a soft whine, even though he nodded. It was hard to say, really. A difficult comparison since all he knew currently was hurt, of one sort or another. He still felt sick to his stomach, his head all fuzzy and out of sorts. His body, all of it, thrumming in a steady ache.</p><p> </p><p>But he was alive.</p><p> </p><p>And dammit, he was gonna keep it that way.</p><p> </p><p>“Right...think we should be on,” he finally muttered after what felt like hours. Minutes, most likely. Seconds probably, but time had stretched into something unreal. Intangible. “Gonna have to help me up, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps if he had been in a more, lucid frame of of mind, he would have understood why that wouldn't have worked. Perhaps he might have even drummed up a slightly better plan, if he only took a second to think. The thought dancing in his head as the world around him wavered dangerously. They'd managed a single step before plummeting. John wriggling out from under his arm where he'd wedged himself.</p><p> </p><p>As it was, getting a face full of snow wasn't pleasant for him, nor John. His own heft far too much for the likes of the kid to try and even lift. John was much like him, all those years back. Skin and bone, thin as rail, and not a speck of muscle. Hell, he hadn't even been able to swing an axe proper, all the chopping of firewood left to Arthur instead.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur, in the meantime, had filled out. Had put on weight, had gained muscle. He was no tiny thing; not anymore. If he had given any kind of thought, he might have realized that before ending up face down in the snow, darkness clearing from his eyes. Ringing faded from his ears, replaced with something only slightly less grating.</p><p> </p><p>“-rthur! Arthur, get up, please,” he cried, voice catching, “Don't be dead...Arthur! Arthur, please-”</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down, Marston,” he growled. Words said by habit, Arthur blinking slowly as the the world came back into focus. “I ain't dead.”</p><p> </p><p>“You gotta get up, Arthur,” John whimpered, something small and pathetic. “We can try again, we can...I wasn't ready, I was-”</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't happenin',” Arthur cut him off with a shake of his head. The dull realization sinking into him. There was just no way. It simply wasn't feasible; he wasn't going anywhere. Even if he could manage to reach Achilles, or have John bring him near enough, there'd be no getting on top of a horse that large. Between his arm, his leg...he was done in.</p><p> </p><p>Fear. Subtle, but there. More like a whispered phrase muttered from the news that Hosea read in the early mornings. Arthur was sure that there should be more panic. More fear...but he was decidedly numb. Ready to accept his fate, he figured.</p><p> </p><p>But John could make it.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow he managed to move. To edge himself slowly back against the tree that had become his resting place. A heavy wash of emotions that crossed him as he came to rest against the bark. John's face was stark white, nearly the same shade as the snow. Pink fingertips standing out from the cold.</p><p> </p><p>Difficult as it was, he worked his gloves off, ignoring the bite of refreshed agony that briefly cut through the fog. Tossing them towards the kid. John grasping them, confused.</p><p> </p><p>“Put 'em on,” he breathed, nodding towards.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur-”</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't wanna lose your fingers,” he jested, though the jest was strained and bitter. “Gonna need them. How else you gonna hold onto the reigns when you ride on back?”</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't gonna leave you,” John wheezed, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't giving you a choice,” Arthur countered. “You gots to get on back, find Dutch and 'Sea, tell them what happened. They'll know what to do.”</p><p> </p><p>They would know; that much was true. Of that, Arthur held no doubt. Whether they had any chance of reaching here, of finding him, before it was too late… that was less likely. Less sure. Damn near impossible, if he was being honest. Though the lie must have been convincing enough, because he watched as the kid absorbed that falsehood. Eating it up as though it were nothing but the truth. There was a stuttered breath, a hiccup as John wondered.</p><p> </p><p>“I ain't even know the way, Arthur—it's so far and I weren't paying attention...”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, it's easy,” he nearly laughed. Might have, had he not felt so pitifully empty. “Just gotta follow the tracks we made. N when you get close, look in the sky. You'll see smoke from the fire. Bet it'll be nice and warm when you get there too. The ladies sure do a fine job, taking care of things.”</p><p> </p><p>“But-”</p><p> </p><p>“No buts, now,” Arthur cut him off, shaking his head. “You go on, get on Achilles. Get him warm too, and don't let him bully you none either.”</p><p> </p><p>It took a little more convincing. A little more prodding to convince John that this was the right thing to do. The kid clambering up into the saddle with moderate effort, a pitying glance his way once he'd made it. Achilles danced uneasily under the strange new rider, ears twitching and head tossing. Soothing only once Arthur hushed him. His voice a weak coo.</p><p> </p><p>“'s alright, boy. You gotta be good now; take John on home.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur, I'll...it'll be okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure it will,” he mustered with as much conviction as he could. A smile warm on his face, reassuring him. Even if he couldn't feel it himself, it was best for the boy if he didn't fully understand the implications. At least, not until later.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur held that smile until John was long out of view. Until he was alone, wrapped in an icy blanket of solitude. He gripped his ruined arm tightly, bare fingers slowly going numb. Teeth chattering as the cold gripped at him once more.</p><p> </p><p>And he had nothing to do now, but wait.</p><p> </p><p>For whatever was to come.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Woof, what a chapter. 5k, but it didn't feel right splitting it anywhere. </p><p>Arthur surely isn't in a good way.</p><p>But don't worry. He's got his little brother looking after him. </p><p>I'm sure everything will be FINE</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was April.</p><p> </p><p>By now the ground should have been thawed, covered thick with parsley-green grass and peppered with an array of flowers that blossomed underneath a warm sun. That seemed like wanton hope. Because instead they had snow. Snow and ice and a cold, bitter wind that nearly took their breath away.</p><p> </p><p>Someone ought to find Mother Nature, and tell her that she had overslept.</p><p> </p><p>Damn was it ever cold.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea pulled the collar of his coat tighter round his neck in a weak attempt to stave off the bite. They hadn't properly dressed for this; hadn't taken but a moment to shrug into their jackets, and grab a few things. Roused the moment John had come back. All tears and blood and short on breath.</p><p> </p><p>He'd explain.</p><p> </p><p>At least the gist of it. Words barely made out. Something about a gun, an accident, and too much blood. Soon as he'd gotten to 'bear', they were moving. They'd thrust John into the arms of the women for them to look after, and fix on up if there was fixing to be had. Right before Dutch had busted through the door, Hosea quick on his heels. The younger man hadn't waited for him; hadn't even seen if he was coming.</p><p> </p><p>As though anything would convince him otherwise. Not even as they left the warmth behind, greeted instead by the quiet world that lay outside their doorstep. Greeted by a flurry of flakes. It was only the beginning, it seemed. Because that flurry only grew as time went on.</p><p> </p><p>It was still day by time only. The waning afternoon sun had vanished, lost behind a thick layer of clouds, casting them into a muddied gray as the snow grew thick around them. They'd donned their lanterns, held tight in outstretched hands, a wash of light illuminating a trail that was quickly disappearing under heaps of new snow.</p><p> </p><p>It'd been easy to follow their tracks. Even despite the muddled trail left in John's return wake. The thick grooves torn through the snow were easily seen; though the hollow steps were steadily being filled in with fresh flakes. Soon, he reckoned, soon they'd have nothing to follow. The thought sitting ill with him, caught up high in his throat, making it hard to swallow.</p><p> </p><p>An onset of trepidation he forced back down. Emotions he trapped under thick layers of denial. It would do no good for him to panic here; especially considering Dutch was near that already.</p><p> </p><p>The man hadn't said much; had said damn near nothing. Plunging out ahead, taking the lead. Though Hosea could see it; in his stance, the rigidity of his form, and the tight-lipped scowl that sat heavy on his face in brief glimpses caught by light. What was going through the man's mind he could only guess. Hosea feeling as though they might be the same thoughts running rampant through his own.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur, out here, in this? Wounded, damn near dead and if not dead, unable to move seeing as John had come on home on his own. They'd collected a jumble of broken pieces from the kid who'd all but fallen apart at their feet the moment he'd gotten there. A general sense of the story, though it was more akin to a book with missing pages. Missing chapters, as far as he was concerned.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't even know there were bears in this area. Had he known, he might have...might have what? Even he wasn't sure, the truth sitting heavy on his tongue. It wasn't like Arthur, to go pestering such a foul tempered thing, and he knew better. Hosea had taught him that much. To give bears a wide breadth. That they weren't creatures to handle casually. No...that thing must have set on them, and quick. It was the only explanation he had.</p><p> </p><p>Because Arthur wouldn't have risked it. Not with himself, and surely not with John. As much as Arthur pretended otherwise, he sure had a penchant for that kid. Went out of his way to see after him. Or torment him. Or both; either was a possibility. One that Hosea hadn't quite figured out yet.</p><p> </p><p>He held the reigns tight, nudging his warmblood forward. Quickly catching pace with Dutch's own nokota who had suddenly slowed. Dutch always did like the dainty things; quick little bastards with fiery tempers. Though she looked shaken in this cold, head bowed down against the onslaught of wintry wind and heavy flakes that stuck easily to her flesh.</p><p> </p><p>“Why we stopping?”</p><p> </p><p>Asked perhaps a bit harsher than intended. Hosea couldn't help that his voice was all sharp and broken. This damn cold was doing him no favors, numbing what little flesh was exposed. Stealing his words. He held the lantern up higher, letting the light from it wash over the other man's form. Glinting off the faint tendrils of panic that were budding in his gaze. Eyes darting about them like a rabbit, Dutch turning in his saddle when the nokota steadfastly refused to move.</p><p> </p><p>“Tracks end here,” the man forced out. As though that was explanation enough. A beat of silence, before he was talking again. “I can't—there isn't anything here, Hosea.”</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't even noticed. Too content to let the man lead. To simply follow in his wake. Too lost in his own damn thoughts. He didn't even flinch when Dutch called out. His voice echoing through empty air about them. Drowned out in the onslaught of snow.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur? Arthur, you hear me? Come on son, answer us!”</p><p> </p><p>Might as well have been yelling out to the wind. Still they both sat still, ears strained in faint hope to hear something. Anything that might have given them a clue. He looked back up as Dutch moved, forcing his horse on with a sharp kick of his heels. The steed clumsily picking through the deep snow.</p><p> </p><p>“Where you going, Dutch?” Hosea hurried after him. The man cutting a new path in the snow.</p><p> </p><p>“We have to keep trying, Hosea,” the man snapped back at him. The panic turned into anger, a growl in his words that cut through the air and sat funny in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Keep trying? Yes...he hadn't shown an indication they were simply giving up. But forging ahead, into unknown territory?</p><p> </p><p>“Dutch—you, slow down a moment, will you?”</p><p> </p><p>He'd put a gap between them. A few good feet, almost to where his form was vanished. If not for the dancing light of the lantern he'd lose him completely. That, as well as his voice. Fury now, instead of anger. Pointed words that were cast with intention to hurt. Lashing out because irrationality was about all he had left that was solid enough for him to hold onto.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>You feel free to </span><em>slow</em> <em>down </em><span>all you'd like, Hosea. Hell, why not just turn tail now, go get warm back at the cabin? Christ....maybe </span><em>you've </em><span>given up on him, but I haven't. I </span><em>wont</em><span>. Arthur doesn't have time for us to slow down. So keep pushing, or leave.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“Ain't what I'm saying, Dutch,” Hosea snapped back, just as quick. Even quicker with his horse, closing that gap in a few short strides. His warmblood larger, sturdier. Able to push through freshly fallen snow with far greater ease. Darting into the path of the nokota, bringing the both of them to a stop.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea, get out of the way!” the man snarled, nothing shy of feral. He looked it too; a bitterness in his eyes, face dropped into something dark and dangerous.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop this nonsense,” he hissed, matching with his own anger. “I'm just as worried as you are, but we ain't doing Arthur any favors, running off blindly in whatever goddamn direction you fancy.”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I am doing my </span><em>best,</em><span>” Dutch bit back, words all but shouted. </span></p><p> </p><p>“Your best ain't good enough!”</p><p><br/>They were wasting time. Precious time when he knew every second counted. Minutes had gone by, hours maybe, since all of this had transpired. Too hard to tell, to keep track of time. But one thing he did know was that running amuck would do none of them any favors.</p><p> </p><p>“Well I am sorry to disappoint you—didn't know you had such high standards.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's enough, goddammit,” Hosea shook his head, cheeks puffing against the cold. “Stop being an pompous ass and use your head.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now listen here-”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you listen,” he was quick in cutting him off. “We need to think; we need to plan. Otherwise we're just gonna be chasing our tails.”</p><p> </p><p>He waited a beat. An intentional pause, watching the man before him. Features set hard, brow furrowed as those words settled in. When he was sure Dutch was listening, he drew in a breath. Tone softer than a moment ago.</p><p> </p><p>“We can't just be taking off wherever we please. Now—you said you know this area, so start acting like it. We know Arthur and John made it to the lake; that's the direction we ought to head.”</p><p> </p><p>They'd been able to discern that much from John. Through choked tears, and a chaotic explanation. It wasn't much; but it was something.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea...look, the tracks, they—” his voice wavered, even as he turned. Light dancing off the surface of white, of the snow, mussed from their own doing.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Forget the tracks,” Hosea pushed once more. “Ain't like they're much use to us now. But you said yourself the lake was south; that's the direction we should head.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“South?” the man echoed uncertainly. Lost in a daze, seemingly. Hand fumbling inside his jacket, pulling free a compass. The small instrument sat nearly hidden in his hands. Though he brought it close, eyes squinting in the thin light. Then suddenly he turned. Leading the way with new purpose. A new direction.</p><p> </p><p>South.</p><p> </p><p>South until they hit the lake. The intended direction the boys had gone. It was as good a start as any. Then maybe once they were there, they could figure something out. Maybe see something. Find him.</p><p> </p><p>That was the hope. So faint but still flickering deep inside of him. Beset with something else. Darker, more disturbing thoughts. His voice tight as he risked breaking the silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Dutch, if we—when we find him, if things aren't looking good-”</p><p> </p><p>“He'll be fine,” the man cut him off. Voice gruff though lacking in the earlier animosity. “That boy's a survivor.”</p><p> </p><p>Of that he had no doubt. Arthur had been hurt before; though he shook off most inflictions like nothing more than a bad scrape. Half the time it'd taken them a day or so to even realize he was hurt. Arthur so well at hiding his wounds they were none the wiser. That boy was tough as he was sour, full of piss and vinegar and damn could he ever bite when he wanted.</p><p> </p><p>The very traits they'd all but grown to love and admire were perhaps now the biggest obstacles. Because Hosea knew. Knew how bad things could truly be. John's words only painting the vaguest of glimpses into what they might find. The gruesome image dancing in their heads.</p><p> </p><p>Made worse by his own knowledge.</p><p> </p><p>He'd grown up around bears. Was practically raised on bear meat. He'd gone on his fair share of hunts, had encountered beasts as tall as towering trees, and broad as impossibly large boulders. And he'd seen what happened to fools unlucky enough to be caught by one unaware. The sort of damage that could be done.</p><p> </p><p>Men who'd been torn in half. Men who'd been left with gaping holes inside of them. Men with limbs pulled right off. One fellow, in particular, had his head half caved in.</p><p> </p><p>He'd lived. For about an hour. Crying and whimpering and screaming in agony before the devil finally came up and took pity on him. Even after all these years, Hosea could still remember that. The memory chilling him down to his bones. Worse than the cold ever could.</p><p> </p><p>“Dutch,” he started again, chasing after the words that had so quickly fled. Trying to wrangle them once more. To get his thoughts in order. “We need to consider-”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I already told you, he's gonna be </span><em>fine</em><span>.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Dutch,” he kicked his horse up alongside his. That way he could talk without shouting; a necessity seeing as his voice was already thin.</span></p><p> </p><p>“We're gonna find that boy, Hosea,” Dutch wouldn't even look his way. Eyes fixed ahead unless they were dropping down to the compass to keep on track.</p><p> </p><p>“Of that I have no doubt,” he whispered, something heavy and sick gripping him as he continued, “but we need to prepare ourselves—if he's too far gone-”</p><p> </p><p>That did catch the man's attention. Dutch faltering to a stop, meeting his gaze with a shocked expression. His own voice losing that confident edge. Fallen into something broken. Something...hopeless.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you saying, Hosea?”</p><p> </p><p>There was nothing to it. Might as well get it into the open.<br/><br/></p><p>“I'm saying that if things look bad, if they're isn't anything we can do for him—it might be better to end it.”</p><p> </p><p>There wasn't a response. That hurt more, he thought. More than even suggesting it had. He might have felt better if Dutch turned on him. Wanted more than anything for the man to argue, to tell him he was nothing but an old fool.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead the man sat there, atop his horse in silence. Mouth slightly ajar as though he </span>
  <em>wanted</em>
  <span> to say something, but words fleeting. Eyes looking, but not really seeing. Gazing out into the storm. Lost. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“It ain't like I want it that way,” Hosea started, desperate to fill the silence. “I'm just trying—”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” the man finally whispered. An empty whisper. Anger he could understand. Shock as well. Disbelief. But not this emptiness that came forth.</p><p> </p><p>“You ever see a bear attack?” Hosea questioned by way of answer. When Dutch didn't respond, Hosea continued. “Ain't never a pretty business. Folk can live, that much is for sure, but if it's bad—if he got set on a bear, he may already be lost to us, Dutch. We have to do what's right by that boy, hard as that may be.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a thin breath. Something weak and pitiful, and tears—he saw tears, trailing down his cheeks. Though he was in the right frame of mind to pretend it was flakes melted against his skin instead.</p><p> </p><p>“This—this is my fault, Hosea. I sent him out here, and I didn't—I swear I didn't...”</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't nobody's fault,” he cut him sharply. “You can't control nature, Dutch.”</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I could have gone with him, could have done </span><em>something</em><span>.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“Oh for sure,” Hosea forced a smile, did his best to lighten this sudden, dreary mood. “You could have offered yourself up for bait. Seeing as you can't even hunt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can hunt,” the man protested, brow furrowed suddenly at the slight.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh sure; now tell me, who was it that taught Arthur to shoot a rabbit with a shotgun?”</p><p> </p><p>There was a scowl, but it chased away the bitter pain that had been lingering there a moment ago. Previous words gone, but not forgotten, lingering heavy on their minds. Dutch nudged his horse on once more. Dodging back out into the lead. Hosea followed, his throat still tight despite the earlier jest. No amount of humor could truly chase away the dread. The trepidation of what might be waiting for them overshadowing everything else.</p><p> </p><p>The bitter bite of the cold winter storm continued to eat away at them. It was difficult to see; hat pulled low to block out the worst of the snow. Fingers growing numb even beneath thick gloves. A wonder, faint in his mind, of how long they could truly stay out here.</p><p> </p><p>Until they found him.</p><p> </p><p>The answer, ringing dully in his head. Knowing there was little other option. They'd find him; one way or another. They'd keep on going until they had. Dutch wouldn't relent. And neither would he. Arthur deserved that, at the very least.</p><p> </p><p>To be brought back home.</p><p> </p><p>The thought sitting heavy and ill with him. Thoughts that where shattered by a sudden yell. Or rather something like a gasp; maybe a plea. Maybe both. Whatever it was, it fell free from Dutch in a way he'd never heard. The man's voice, stuttered and broken.</p><p> </p><p>Calling to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea?”</p><p> </p><p>Never had he heard his name said in such a manner. Something about it sending new dread down his spine. Eating away at him. Leaving him feeling weak. Empty. What little hope he had, dissipating. Vanishing into the night.</p><p> </p><p>Seeing it was worse. The dark shape, lumped in the snow. Half buried. Unmoving.</p><p> </p><p>Blinking. His heart, for a moment, seemingly forgetting how to beat. His lungs frozen, unable to drawn any breath.</p><p> </p><p>A body.</p><p> </p><p>They had found a body.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was Daisy.</p><p> </p><p>They had found Daisy.</p><p> </p><p>The horse half-buried under a blanket of snow. Form rigid where she lay. He could see faint divots torn into the landscape, as well as a spattering of blood that was nearly lost under a layer of fresh flakes. A vestige of her final moments; of her struggle.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't know whether to be dismayed, or relieved. An influx of emotions, strange in nature, seizing him. Dutch knew how much Arthur cared for her. To see her here, like this...bothered him in a way he wasn't quite in the right state of mind to try and comprehend.</p><p> </p><p>And yet he couldn't deny the relief that swept through him. A cascade of alleviation that broke free, washing over him like the warmth of the sun. He suddenly felt heavy; limbs weighed down by nothing other than his lack of strength, so weak at his knees he nearly sank into the snow.</p><p> </p><p>Shaking. He was shaking. A small beast of a tremor that wormed its way through his body, straight down his spine. Leaving his head empty, his heart heavy. Leaving him feeling as though he might be sick.</p><p> </p><p>Daisy. A horse. Not Arthur. Not even human. A horse...the body was a horse.</p><p> </p><p>It was some sort of remorse mixed with twisted elation. Sorrow for the loss, though a low hum of contentment that it wasn't Arthur.</p><p> </p><p>Not here. Not yet.</p><p> </p><p>If they found him at all.</p><p> </p><p>He was hit with a sudden wave of anxiety.</p><p> </p><p>Something dreadful and heavy that nearly did him in. The first inclination that they <em>might</em><span> not find him. A thought he truly hadn't taken time to process. Because until now, not finding him hadn't been a possibility that had entered his mind. </span></p><p> </p><p>He had thought it to be simple; that they'd come out this way. That they'd find him, bring him on home. Fix whatever hurts he had, and then chastise him good and long for making them worry so. A scenario that had played in his mind time and time again since they'd first come out into the cold darkness that lay beyond the cabin door.</p><p> </p><p><span>And now...now he wa</span>tched, almost detachedly, as Hosea slid from the saddle. Unable to move himself, hardly able to breathe as the older man crouched low near the prone form, hands resting on her flank. A sign, surely. An omen—dark and dreary and grossly cruel.</p><p> </p><p>Because if a horse hadn't been able to survive this—whatever this was, what hope was there for Arthur?</p><p> </p><p>“Been dead a few hours, at the most,” he turned towards him.</p><p> </p><p>“Bear?” Dutch forced the word out. Broken and crisp, but if Hosea noticed the man didn't react. Instead he shook his head, moving to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>“Doesn't look like it; just a couple of bullet wounds—reckon that must have been the accident John was carrying on about.”</p><p> </p><p>Bullet wounds?</p><p> </p><p>He blinked. Processing that information. Taking in her form once more. He hadn't really looked, too put off by the gruesome discovery. Yet by Hosea's observation, she'd been shot. Not taken out by a bear.</p><p> </p><p>It did little to assuage his fears. Dutch blinked, reaching a hand up to wipe away the snow from his eyes. His mind hearkening back to what John had all said. The boy stammering in a rush, something about a gun. Had gone on about an accident. About how he hadn't meant it</p><p> </p><p>What he hadn't meant, they hadn't taken time to ponder. At least he hadn't. Far more focused on shrugging into decent clothes. On getting out here. On finding <em>him</em><span>.</span></p><p> </p><p>“He's got to be close,” Hosea cut into his, his lantern held up against the flurry of flakes. His voice cutting through the night air about them. Calling out in vain attempt to get the boy to respond. Give them a lead; something, anything for them to follow.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch still found himself unable to move. His heart was beating far too fast, and his lungs unwilling to cooperate. He couldn't even bring himself call out, resigned to let Hosea do so instead.</p><p> </p><p>Not that it made much difference; his call came back empty. Unanswered. Dutch startled at the hand that fell on his shoulder, unaware that the man was talking to him just then.</p><p> </p><p>“Reckon we ought to split up,” Hosea pressed him. Taking charge where he could not. Dutch watched as the man gestured with a nod of his head. “I'll take off this way, you head on down to the right. See what we can find now.”</p><p> </p><p>Find.</p><p> </p><p>As though they were looking for a body. Not a person. Not a living thing. The thought heavy in him, weighing him down. Leaving him stumbling downhill, somehow willing himself to move. He held the lantern up high, letting the flame guide him. And even though the wash of light cascaded over freshly fallen snow, it was still too dark and too dismal to discern if something had actually come this way prior to him.</p><p> </p><p>Still, he pressed on. Unable to do much else; unable to do nothing. Dutch still felt as though he were in a daze. Surrounded by a fog that threatened to choke him, drowning out the rest of the world. He couldn't feel the cold, unable to register the bite of the wind he knew to be there. Couldn't even hear his voice, feeble as it was, calling out in faint hope of receiving a reply.</p><p> </p><p>At least the snow had tapered off. Thick and heavy flakes waning to mere pinpricks, faint whispers against the dark of night that had all but seized them now. It made it a little easier to see, a little easier to push forward, even if it felt as though he was stumbling through a void.</p><p> </p><p>The light about him cast odd shadows, images dancing against the white of the snow. Highlighting bare trees that had yet to come into season despite the lateness of the year. Still dormant, still slumbering due to the grip of winter's embrace.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't the only thing he saw.</p><p> </p><p>He'd barely noticed it to begin with, dark as it was. Lumbering before him. The light hitting it oddly. Peculiarly shaped and rising above the snow. A heft unlike he'd seen before; it could easily be mistaken for a boulder, and at first glance, Dutch had almost dismissed it as much. But something strange about it caught his attention. Something different and foreign, his curiosity latching onto it and unwilling to yield.</p><p> </p><p>Drawing him closer. Until he could see it, unmistaken to what it might be. He let out a breath, unaware he'd been holding it in.</p><p> </p><p>Not stone. Fur. Not inanimate, not even alive. Not any longer. He felt something cold, hard and rancid settle his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>He'd never seen a bear before. Not in person. The closest thing to one had been years back, when he and Hosea had cased a house. The finery in that near-mansion was overwhelmingly mind-numbing. Decked out in art, trimmed with gold and polished with more trinkets than either of them could ever imagine seeing. The entrance had welcomed folk in with a large rug; the winnings of a trophy hunt from long ago. A beast so large that Dutch had dismissed it as even being real, rather a fancy someone had paid for to bolster their own ego.</p><p> </p><p>Even despite Hosea's protest that it was real, Dutch hadn't really listened. Had rolled his eyes because surely that couldn't be a thing. Beasts simply did not get that large; or so he thought. After all, he wasn't much of an outdoorsman. He'd preferred to keep his hunting towards that which could be found inside a general store.</p><p> </p><p>And now, face to face with the real thing, even one that was no longer among the living, sent a chill down his spine. A fear deep-seated in his gut that refused to lessen. He couldn't imagine facing a beast like this. Alone. The heft alone, sank deeply into the snow, suggested a hundred pounds, if not more. How could anyone face that, and survive? How could Arthur—</p><p> </p><p>Dutch turned, his heart quickening. He'd forgotten, for a moment he'd actually forgotten what he was doing out here. Too lost and distracted to keep his focus. To stay on track. Imbued by his own damn thoughts and curiosities. What the hell was wrong with him?</p><p> </p><p>Dutch held the lantern high, searching the area. A new resolve blossoming in him. A trail, broken as it was, slowly forming in his mind. First Daisy. Then the bear. John's story, the pieces falling into place. He had to be close. He had to be—there!</p><p> </p><p>Arthur.</p><p> </p><p>His steps, lumbering and awkward, pushing through the snow. Feeling sick and anxious and elated, a thin tendril of hope he clung to. As though it was the only thing keeping his head above watery depths threatening to pull him under. Dutch all but collapsed at his feet, gulping air, swallowing nothing though it felt heavy in his throat. Blinking at the sight before him.</p><p> </p><p>The boy was all curled up on himself. Tucked away tight as though to escape the pain or the bitter chill. Unmoving. His skin, ashen—at least in places where it was not covered by blood. The lantern a poor substitute for him to discern properly. He couldn't even—couldn't even tell if he was alive. The thought stealing his breath once more.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch swallowed, forced himself to breathed. Forced himself to call out, his voice broken and refusing to work. Hesitantly he reached out, fingers cupping his face gently, tilting his head up. Weight heavy in his hands, unresponsive. Seemingly lost.</p><p> </p><p>They'd been too late.</p><p> </p><p>They were too late. The terror tackling him like an avalanche. Burying him under layers of grief, choking him.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't even realize he'd been calling for Hosea.</p><p> </p><p>Not until the man dropped near him.</p><p> </p><p>“He's—I think he's—” Dutch swallowed, unsure of what he was saying. The words coming from his mouth surely didn't sound like him. His throat was raw, burned from his panicked shouts.</p><p> </p><p>“Move,” Hosea hardly gave him a warning, unceremoniously shoving to one side. Dutch toppled into the snow, stunned; shocked. Even so, he didn't have it in him to be angry. He couldn't feel much other than steadfast denial, an unwillingness to accept such a horrid fate.</p><p> </p><p>He watched, perplexed as Hosea tore his gloves off, fingers tracing down the boy's neck, coming to a rest. There was pregnant pause before the man let out a breath, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>An omen of ill news, he knew. Earlier thoughts and fears all but confirmed. Dutch could only watch, eyes wide. He knew it wasn't good. Knew it somewhere in his heart. Tears burned in his eyes. Words, questions, dying in his throat. His own heart squeezed to a painful stop, refusing to even flutter until Hosea went on. A sigh heavy in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“He still breathing,” the observation came, though it was reserved. Still he felt something break inside him. Earlier fears chased away, though they lingered on the fringes of his sanity, stoutly refusing to vanish completely. Because he might be breathing, but for how long was the question. The fear mounting in him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea...he—look at him—”</p><p> </p><p>“We'll have time for looking later,” Hosea hissed, his focus still on the boy. “Gotta see if we can get him up—work on getting him out of this cold.”</p><p> </p><p>That made the most sense, he guessed. Still Dutch blinked dumbly, watching Hosea move once more, one hand cupping Arthur's chin, the other, his shoulder. Shaking him. “Come on, Arthur. Wake up a little; come on now. Just a little bit.”</p><p> </p><p>It took too long; far too long in his opinion. But the weakest of groans, the smallest fraction of a whimper breaking free roused him. Dutch pressing in close as Arthur's eyes fluttered, blinking in confusion. Dutch bolstered by the sight, as well as by Hosea's firm voice. Unwavering.</p><p> </p><p>How, Dutch could never be certain. He admired that, though he would never admit it out loud. Hosea possessed impeccable talent for remaining calm in situations. Unshaken by even the mos dire catastrophes. There was a warmth in his voice, undeniable comforting as the man encouraged him.</p><p> </p><p>“That's a good boy; we got you now.”</p><p> </p><p>“'Sea?”</p><p> </p><p>There was so much confusion wrought in that single syllable. A pathetic whimper of a tone Dutch hadn't heard for years. Not since the early days when Arthur had been little more than frightened thing so beaten and abused, chased by demons so foul that he and Hosea could only speculate what plagued him.</p><p> </p><p>It'd been a lifetime since he'd seen Arthur so weak. And yet, it was perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd seen. Because, damn it, he was <em>alive.</em></p><p> </p><p>Alive they could deal with; not so much if he was dead.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm here,” Hosea reassured him firmly, “Dutch too—we're gonna get you on home, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“'s a bear,” the soft whisper came, an attempt to explain.</p><p> </p><p>“We know,” Hosea hushed him. Bolstered him. Reassurance in every word. So poignant that even Dutch could sense it; as much as it seemed to ease Arthur, it soothed him all the more. “It's alright now; we got you.”</p><p> </p><p>The man's voice, dropping lower, directed towards Dutch as he pulled back. “Keep him talking; I'm gonna get the horses.”</p><p> </p><p>Dutch slid into the vacant spot easily; taking up the mantle he'd just left behind. Arthur blinking dully, eyes hazy as they fell on his. Dutch did his best to force a smile, to drum up the charm that so easily came to him. Though it was fleeting at best. Dutch once again taking in his appearance. Easier seen in extra lantern Hosea had left. The blood, though long frozen from the cold, still twisted his stomach in a way he wasn't familiar with.</p><p> </p><p>“You gave us quite a scare, son.”</p><p> </p><p>Something weak, something useless, but it was all he had. All he could muster. He reached out hesitantly, unsure of where to touch. Of where he could touch; too much blood and gore to tell where the wounds started, or where they ended. He settled on clasping a hand. His gaze darkening to see the redness there; stark like blood.</p><p> </p><p>“You're freezing,” he sputtered, the comment asinine in itself, though he realized it far too late. There were a thousand other things he could say, and yet that was all that came to mind? Something that was obvious, as though it had to be said in the first place? Even so he moved, gripping Arthur's hand in his, fingers locked between his own. Trying, in vain, to chase away the chill that was there.</p><p> </p><p>“Can't move...m'arm,” he muttered, words slurred and slow. As though forming thoughts was a difficulty in its own.</p><p> </p><p>Which arm wasn't difficult to discern. The limb resting heavy against his chest, the bandages stained red. It was almost as alarming to see as the rest of him. What damage had been done, Dutch couldn't say. Wouldn't say until they had a proper look. Something ill stirring in him, rampant thoughts that quickened away.</p><p> </p><p>“I—it's alright; we'll get it fixed,” he forced a smile. Tried to follow what Hosea had done, to hold onto that reassurance. That reassurance dying, watching as his eyes drifted closed. The rigidity in him fading as he nearly went limp.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur—no,” he reached out, jostling him. The motion rousing him, a short cry breaking free. Bleary eyes wrenching back open, doused in misery. “I'm sorry, son—I, you gotta stay awake now. You hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dutch—”</p><p> </p><p>“You hear me, son?” he adopted a more, forceful voice. Something demanding, something that couldn't be argued with. Feeling satisfaction, however empty it was, to see him nod. Arthur mumbling something akin to agreement.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch was ever too happy for Hosea to return. Both horses in his wake. Blankets stuffed under both his arms. He shook them free, draping one across his front. The second, about his shoulders and down his back; once they eased him away from the tree. They tried their best to be gentle. To not push or press against his numerous wounds, but it was damn near impossible. Seeing how covered he was. It was even harder, for him at least, to ignore the bleak protests that came from Arthur.</p><p> </p><p>He looked better; only just. The fabric hid the worst of his wounds. Injuries buried under fabric, and at a glance, it appeared as though nothing were the matter. Dutch almost preferred it that way. It made it easier to ignore. To pretend.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright Arthur; we gonna get you up now.”</p><p> </p><p>Said in such a way that it wasn't a question; leaving no room for argument. Not that there was much argument in him to be had, weak as he was. Arthur managed a low hum, eyes blinking owlishly up at them as if trying to discern if they were real or not—as if they were a figment he could just simply blink away. It hurt, simply watching him, and Dutch wasn't sure how they could even move him. Not without hurting him further. He wasn't even sure where to start.</p><p> </p><p>That same fear didn't seem to grip Hosea. His doubts chased away as the man moved. Dutch watched as he wrapped an arm about Arthur's shoulders, easing him up. Whispering soft apologies at each pained cry that broke free. Even so, every soft whimper that split the night and tore into his soul. It left something foul that ate away at him, freezing him where he stood.</p><p> </p><p>Until Hosea barked at him. Something angry and vicious in his tone. It was enough to get him moving, enough to shake whatever demon had latched onto him. Dutch stepped forward, wrapping Arthur up in an embrace, helping to bear his weight. Supporting him best he could seeing as Arthur could do nothing for himself. He'd slipped unconscious again. Completely limp in their hold. Either from the pain, or sheer exhaustion. Dutch couldn't tell. He felt a mixture of fear and worry race through him, though it was tempered by relief. Much as he wanted to keep him awake, it'd be better. Better for him to not be aware and suffer through all this. He could feel the chill from his body seeping into him, driving to his very core. Dutch letting out a swear.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Hosea. He's just about frozen.”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t need to say anything else. With a jerk of his chin, Hosea silently commanded that they mount up. Dutch and Arthur atop the former’s nokota, a smaller and more manageable beast. Faster and smoother than Hosea’s own. Even so, hoisting Arthur into the saddle was a herculean feat. The boy was boneless, lost to the world. But they managed. Dutch mounted behind him, drawing Arthur close and holding him tight. Pinning his chilled form against his chest with a single arm.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur was cold. Far too cold; not even a shiver racing through his frame in feeble attempt to keep himself warm. Dutch might have not been well versed in certain things, but he at least knew that it wasn’t a good sign. He could feel every stuttered breath; every uneven flicker of Arthur’s heart, every hitch in his lungs. Worse yet, he could hear every muted whimper, ever delirious cry; even in the hold of unconsciousness, the boy was suffering.</p><p> </p><p>The thought sudden and dark, flickering through him. Hearkening back to what Hosea had said. What if there was nothing to be done? What if his hurts were far too great? What if Hosea was right— what if Arthur was too far gone and they had to—</p><p> </p><p>Dutch swallowed back those thoughts. Refusing to entertain them in the slightest.</p><p> </p><p>He’d be <em>fine. </em></p><p> </p><p>Dutch repeated such fervently under his breath between empty pleas for Arthur to just hold on. His prayers, small as they were, were swept away by the howling winds as they tore their way back to the cabin.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay with me, son.”</p><p> </p><p>A plead. A prayer. A command. He couldn't be certain. All he could hear was the echo of his own voice, thundering in his head.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur would be fine.</p><p> </p><p>He had to be.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think there were a couple of you who guessed it was Daisy they found, so well done! Sad as it was, her death was not in vain. She helped lead them to Arthur. </p><p>He's found now, his dads have him, and nothing bad will ever happen to him again. </p><p>Maybe.</p><p>There's still a couple chapters left yet - so who knows? </p><p>:D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur was dying.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch was absolutely sure of it.</p><p> </p><p>No matter how tight he held the boy, nor how greatly he tried to share what little warmth he had— at one point going quite so far as to peel back his own thick coat to stuff Arthur, blankets and all, inside— Arthur was still just as cold as the air that bit at their cheeks. That iciness from Arthur's body swept into his, tremors that rattled him to the bone and quickened Dutch's heart all the more.</p><p> </p><p>He was dying and he was conscious, if only barely, and there was nothing Dutch could do for him. It hurt; a type of agony that was new and foreign. Knowing there was nothing to be done. That he was useless. Dutch cursed himself for that, knowing damn well that if Arthur didn’t make it back to the cabin, he could never forgive himself. He kicked his steed on all the faster as another miserable whine bit free from Arthur’s lips.</p><p> </p><p>He wondered how Hosea kept up as well as he did. The man leading the way, tearing through the snow with little hesitation.</p><p> </p><p>Quick as they were going, the journey was easily cut in half; due equally to their desperate speed and that they were no longer trying to follow a dissipating trail. Dutch could see the smoke plumes from here, and theirs was the only cabin for miles.</p><p> </p><p>Honestly, it all was a blur; next Dutch knew he was hauling Arthur down, along with Hosea's help. They all but kicked in the door, the pair of them hollering pleas and commands in the same breath. Drowning one another out. All the while Arthur moaned and cried in pain, unfortunately awake, though far from lucid.</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t like being handled like this. Dutch knew it. On a good day Arthur only barely tolerated being touched, but now? Hurting as he was? Confused, and pained, and jostled, and dying? He saw the barest signs of fight from the boy; a sure marker that if given even an ounce of life he would have been an absolute hellcat.</p><p> </p><p>But he wasn’t. He couldn’t. The boy merely voiced his agony in howls through chattering teeth.</p><p> </p><p>And hell, that almost wrenched Dutch’s heart worse than Arthur’s injuries had. Leaving him breathless; though that could have been a result of strain, of worry, of stress. Stress that mitigated, growing tenfold inside. Met with purse chaos.</p><p> </p><p>Susan, Bessie, Annabelle, John—all of them pressing in close. Nearly tripping over one another. Nearly tripping over John who was still small enough to weave between the adults and fool enough not to think where he was going. Dutch let out a snarl, vaguely aware he had as he snapped.</p><p> </p><p>“Get him out of here!”</p><p> </p><p>They didn't need him underfoot. Didn't need him meddling in things. Didn't need him watching Arthur die. Because surely he was. The signs all too clear. John was taken off someplace by one of the women. Dutch didn't even notice. Didn't even see him swept away, pushed out of the room they'd been led into.</p><p> </p><p>A spare room. The largest in the small, abandoned homestead they'd happened upon. Privy with a bed, a second fireplace that had been stoked to life. Flames dancing, casting off warmth though he couldn't feel it none. He couldn't feel much other than panic. Panic and desperation and defeat. An ultimate failure. The notion highlighted at the pained moan, nearly a gasp, wrenched from Arthur as they lay him down.</p><p> </p><p>They'd tried to be gentle. Though it was near impossible, given his state. Dutch watching as he lay panting. Eyes pressed shut against the waves of agony, breaths sucked in hastily through chattering teeth. He was shaking; trembling and quivering so vividly it seemed to be only making things worse.</p><p> </p><p>He took a step back, heart pounding. Was this what death was like? Provided that it wasn't from a gun nor a rope; he couldn't say. A slow, agonizing and long drawn out process. Each moment worse than the last. He could only stare; watch as Arthur lay there, oblivious. Face ashen and lips blue—Dutch didn't even notice Hosea moving, though he heard the words well enough.</p><p> </p><p>“Bessie, be a dear—fetch some blankets; many as you can spare. We gotta get this boy warm. Susan, we're gonna need you as well. Some clean water, fresh clothes –bring my satchel on in. He's gonna need some patching done too.”</p><p> </p><p>Blankets. Warmth. Water. Patching.</p><p> </p><p>As though this was something simple to fix. As though Arthur wasn't in his final throes; as if he weren't fading away with each passing second. Struggling for each and every breath among pitiful whimpers and whines that filtered out between his shudders. Dutch watching, waiting for each one to be his last.</p><p> </p><p>Blinking, pulled out from his revere by Hosea. The man calling him. Cursing.</p><p> </p><p>“Dammit, Dutch! I need you with me.”</p><p> </p><p>It got him moving. If only a few feeble steps towards the bed. Unsure, but unwilling as hell to simply fold. To simply give in. If Hosea felt there might be a chance, then surely there must be. Though that assurance faltered, watching as the sodden blankets were peeled back. The ones that had so tightly been wrapped about him on the journey here.</p><p> </p><p>The same ones that had been concealing all the red. The blood that stained his jacket, easily seen now in the light from the fire. So much so it'd changed the entirety of his coat. Once blue and well worn—it was now crimson; even from here he could see how thick and stiff and miry it all was. Jagged gaps torn clear through the material, leaving him to wonder what horrid things lay just below. His imagination running rampant. Unchecked.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea's words, heavy on his mind.</p><p> </p><p>A kindness, he had called it. A mercy killing. Doing what was right, hard as it might be. His voice, utterly lost as he forced himself to talk. To say something. Anything.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea—”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>need</em> your help,” the man snarled, glaring at him. Dutch swallowed, painfully, stepping closer. Voice thin and shaken.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea—look at him...”</p><p> </p><p>“If you ain't gonna help, then get the hell out of here,” he hissed, his voice tempering in the next moment as he turned. Susan coming back in the room, the satchel in her arms. Her voice, reserved, though unshaken. Quite the opposite of his.</p><p> </p><p>“Got some water warming on the fire; I'll let you boys get him ready. Just holler when you need me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Won't be but a few minutes; don't stray far.”</p><p> </p><p>Said calmly. Patiently. Without fear or concern. As though stitching together whatever was left of their boy was as simple as mending a shirt. That it would be something whole after, a blemish hardly seen. Dutch doubted it would be the same here. Watching as Arthur let out another whimper, a short, stuttered gasp spat out through his teeth. Hosea's voice soft, tender. Words easy to come by for him.</p><p> </p><p>“It's alright, Arthur; take a breath now.”</p><p> </p><p>Dutch hadn't even realized the boy hadn't. Face flushed now, eyes scrunched tight as he battled against the pain.</p><p> </p><p>“Just a small one—come on then.”</p><p> </p><p>He complied; either from the coaxing or the inability to simply hold it in any longer. A strained hiccup breaking free.</p><p> </p><p>“—urts,” the word, forced out somehow. Weak and pathetic and heart-wrenching. Turning something sour in his stomach. Hosea was still talking. Impossibly calm. Impossibly kind. The man working the buttons on his jacket. Pulling away swabs of ruined material.</p><p> </p><p>“I know it does. I know, my boy, and I'm so sorry. But I promise you—it ain't gonna hurt forever. It'll get better. Just—just try and breathe; I know you can do that.”</p><p> </p><p>There was another shuddering breath. A hiccup. A cry that turned into a curse when his arm was moved.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck,</em>” Arthur hissed, flinching. Nearly pulling free. A seemingly newfound strength blossoming inside of him. Fighting against him as the bandages were unwound.</p><p> </p><p>“Easy now,” Hosea attempted to reassure him. Reassurances that were lost, hearing the whimper that followed. Arthur clutching at his arm weakly, pulling away from his touch. Hosea let him; Dutch watching, mouth slightly agape as Arthur curled in on himself. Shaking, shivering, crying all at once.</p><p> </p><p>It was enough to get him moving. Enough to get him to take those last few steps that he hadn't been able to before. Dutch lowered himself down on the bed, situated near his head. Hardly a pause as he reached out. One had resting in his hair; the other cupping his face. Dutch's heart stuttered, watching as Arthur turned into the touch. Attempting to bury himself into his hold.</p><p> </p><p>He still felt cold. Frigid beneath his hold, despite the fact his skin was slowly regaining color. Shivering still, teeth chattering when they weren't desperately clenched in feeble attempt to ward off the pain.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright son,” his voice sounded hollow, even to himself. Foreign; displaced. As if it belonged to someone else; as if it weren’t him sitting there, staring at the pain that twisted over Arthur’s features, noting the pallor in his cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch reached down, taking Arthur’s hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. As if in realization, Arthur’s grip tightened— almost painfully. Kid had a hell of a grip. But Dutch didn’t mind in the slightest, enveloping Arthur’s hand in both of his own.</p><p> </p><p>“We—we need to let Hosea patch you up. Got yourself chewed up something awful this time, ain’t you? S’okay though, I got you… I got you. Ain’t going nowhere.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a whimper in response. A hiss through clenched teeth as Hosea set back to work. The man was being gentle as he could—even so, every jostle, every shift, every pull could be felt. Arthur gripping his fingers hard. Flesh and bone alike twisting and turning and pinching under his grip. Dutch grit his teeth against the own pain blossoming in his hand. A curse muttered under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>He'd endure it, though. Endure that a hundred times over if it gave Arthur the smallest measure of comfort. Dutch hadn't failed to notice how rigid he'd become. Nor how Arthur had pressed in close, forehead pressed deep into the crook of Dutch's arm. Choking off any cries that broke free. All of it muffled by the fabric of his coat.</p><p> </p><p>It was almost unbearably hot now. The fire burning steady, sweat trickling under his collar. Dutch ready to strip down to the merest of layers to escape the sweltering heat. Yet despite that heat, Arthur was still frozen. Maybe not as frozen as he once had been—his body warming, slowly. Gradually. The evidence residing in the change of color in his skin. No longer ashen, peppered with shades of red and blue. The entire process no doubt just as painful as everything else.</p><p> </p><p>Dutch turned, watching as Hosea let out a curse. The man rigid, staring down at the mess he'd unwound. There was blood; fresh and thick, oozing at the surface of what he'd pulled free. Strips of flesh torn asunder, groves seeming cut clear down to bone. The sight alone, turning his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't the only thing.</p><p> </p><p>The battered limb lay pliantly on the bed. Even if he could ignore all the torn and bruised flesh, he could tell something was amiss. Memory fuzzy, though admittedly there; remembering how Arthur had said he couldn't move it. His voice, once again hollow, thundering in his ears even though it was barely whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“Busted?”</p><p> </p><p>Hosea shook his head, fingers grazing the limb, up near the shoulder. “Look here—it's out of joint.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can—you can fix it?” he pressed, quiet still, though he assumed Arthur could hear. Knew he was listening. Waiting with bated breath just as he was, to hear what his fate would be. The notion, the mere thought, of anything else sitting ill with him. Not only damming the kid to such a fate, to such a life, but the entirety of the process that would follow.</p><p> </p><p>Because there was no one else. No doctor they could whisk him too. No poor sod they could leave him with to do the dastardly deed. Just them. They would be the poor unfortunates to deal with it. Dutch felt himself pale at the thought, his stomach turning over in his gut. To cause such pain, to inflict such agony, to bestow such morbidity on the boy seemed cruel. But they would. If there was no other choice to be had. His arm, or his life—the choice was easy, even though it was an arduous decision.</p><p> </p><p>Which was why it was perhaps the sweetest sensation that raced through him when he saw the man nod. Hosea shifting, moving to his knees. Placing himself at the front of the bed, hovering over his prone form.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur; Dutch and I are gonna fix you on up here. You just keep doing me a favor, and breathe—it's gonna be alright.”</p><p> </p><p>He glanced at Dutch then, words whispered for only his ears. “Hold him on down now; he ain't gonna like this.”</p><p> </p><p>The thin whine only accented that point. Sharp and sudden that was hissed out through clenched teeth as Hosea maneuvered the limb. Arthur clung to Dutch tight, leaning into his hold. Dutch wrapped him tight, did the best to block his view of what was happening. Of what needed to happen. A steady stream of words, thin reassurances whispered into his ear. Of how he was doing such a good job. That it was almost over. Of reminding him to breathe. Of apologies that were never heard.</p><p> </p><p>The whine breaking out into a sharp cry. Ragged. Feral, Worse than any sound Dutch had yet heard from any man—let alone his boy. A sputtering of pleas, begging for it stop. Then the sudden grinding of bones as the shoulder was thrust back into place. It hit Dutch square in the stomach like a train. Feeling all sorts of wrong as Arthur flinched in his hold.</p><p> </p><p>“It's over,” he breathed, somehow finding his voice. “It's all over—you did good, son. You did so good.”</p><p> </p><p>He talked. Mostly to fill the silence, but also because he felt as though if he stopped talking, he'd end up sick. The cries had softened, though stuttered sobs still broke free between his tremors. Eyes scrunched closed against the pain, chest heaving erratically. Dutch wiped away tears that were marring the boy's freckled face, talking still.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Arthur—breathe. Calm down—it's over. It's okay. You're gonna—take a breath now; just like that. Good boy, just keep on breathing for me.”</p><p> </p><p>He kept up that mantra. For Arthur, for himself; carrying on the conversation even as Susan joined them. The three of them shuffling, working to find the best way to get the job done. Arthur was still shaking in his hold; trembling from both the cold and the pain, though not as tense. Dutch unaware if the pain had lessened to a manageable degree, or if exhaustion was starting to finally win out. The ironclad grip Arthur had on him suggested otherwise; his own fingers had gone numb under his hold, but Dutch didn't dare pull away. Didn't dare let go.</p><p> </p><p>He kept his focus on Arthur, more or less. Watching his now-flushed face, Dutch working one free hand through tangled locks, risking a few glances now and then at the progress that was being made. The blood cleaned, flesh slowly sewn together under Susan's methodical work. The only indication Arthur was aware of the process was the scrunching of his face, the fierce grip on his hand. There was no comment made, hardly a whine.</p><p> </p><p>A hiss, when the arm was lifted and wrapped in fresh gauze. The limb carefully laid down on the bed, attention turned elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>His leg was not as bad. The wound cleaned and tended, needing only a fraction of stitching as his arm had required. The cuts to his chest, even less so. More scrapes than anything else. The thickness of his coat, as well as the leather vest he'd worn underneath had given him some measure of protection from the beast. They required cleaning, but that was all.</p><p> </p><p>And when all that was done, he was redressed. Cocooned in the numerous blankets that had been scrounged and fetched. So much so that he looked ridiculous, but even Dutch could see it was necessary. He still shivered; though not so violently as before. He was more listless than anything else. Seemingly unaware. Drifting, if Dutch didn't know any better. The grip on his hand had lessened, though it still held firm. His breathing, stunted, though no longer hitched or erratic.</p><p> </p><p>As for the rest of them; Hosea and Susan both looked exhausted. Worn and drawn expressions mirroring how he felt inside. Susan was the first to leave, a hand lingering on his shoulder though nothing was said as he shuffled back out of the room. Her voice low and haunting as she spoke to the rest, no doubt updating them on the situation.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea sat with them for a time, unable to peel his gaze away from Arthur. The kid was sleeping by now, Dutch was sure of it. Fitfully. But it was still sleep. A meager escape from all the pain and trauma he'd just endured. Kid was hella strong; Dutch would say that much. He glanced up as Hosea moved, the man shuffling off the bed with a heavy sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay with him awhile; I'll be back in a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>He felt panic at that. The slightest notion of fear building up in him. His voice thin; rough from all the talking he'd done earlier. “Where are you going?”</p><p> </p><p>“Got some things to see to,” the man said, as though that was some sort of explanation. All the while shrugging into his coat. Gloves slipping back on his fingers.</p><p> </p><p>“You got more important things to see to here,” Dutch reminded him angrily. What could possibly be more important than their own damn son? “What if he—what if something happens? What if—”</p><p> </p><p>“He'll be fine,” Hosea didn't even seem bothered. Or perhaps he was, and he was simply too tired to muster any emotion. “Just—let him rest. Best thing for him right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea—”</p><p> </p><p>“He'll be fine,” the man stressed again. “If he wakes, see if you can get some water in him. Otherwise, just let him be.”</p><p> </p><p>If he wakes...</p><p> </p><p>Dutch swallowed, watching as Hosea left. Those words sitting heavy with him. He hadn't thought—hadn't allowed himself to think.</p><p> </p><p>No.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't. Wouldn't. Arthur would be fine. They'd gotten him this far; Dutch simply refused to lose him now. He tightened his grip, fingers encircling the hand that had long gone limp. Giving what comfort he could.</p><p> </p><p>Smiling as Arthur returned that grip. Weak and thin, but surely there.</p><p> </p><p>He was going to be just fine.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Dutch was sure of it.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, make sure to thank Darling_Jack for her help in this one :) </p><p>Hopefully this hit some good hurt/comfort. Arthur being looked after, and Dutch actually being useful for once. </p><p>Share your thoughts, for sure! And I'll see all of you soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He took Achilles with him. As well as his own horse; two of the largest and strongest steeds they had. Pushing through the snowdrift with ease, retracing steps under the looming moon. It was still bitterly cold, but at the very least the snow had stopped.</p><p> </p><p>It took him an hour, maybe two. His first mission had been John's saddle. Working to free from the frozen form slowly being buried beneath the snow. In the morning, when the sun was up and they'd all gotten some rest, he'd return. Bury her proper, he knew. For now she'd stay there, lost within the forest.</p><p> </p><p>There were other things to tend to.</p><p> </p><p>Namely the bear. The creature massive, weighing a few hundred pounds. And being this close, he could see the gashes now. The light of his lantern highlighting the fatal wounds torn into his neck by Arthur's hand in his desperate attempt to ward off the attack. He felt his heart skip a beat, a new appreciation forming within him.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea had spent his youth hunting them; he knew how dangerous they could be. Where to shoot, how to shoot. How to skin; it was a godsend. Bear, he knew, was better when freshly harvested, and hours had already passed. The body rigid, not only from the grasp of death but from the deep freeze. Even the sharpness of his blade struggled to tear through the thick layer of frozen skin.</p><p> </p><p>But he managed. He packed up as much meat as he could carry between the two steeds. A bundle on his own, Achilles bearing the brunt of the catch, along with John's saddle. The halfbred swishing his tail impatiently, though he minded well enough. Following when Hosea let out a click of his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>It was in the early hours of the morning by the time he made it back. The horses ushered inside a partially collapsed barn. It didn't do much for the cold, but it kept them out of the wind, at the very least. Tomorrow...tomorrow they'd have to see after them better.</p><p> </p><p>Susan was awake. So was Annabelle. Bessie. None of them able to find rest given all that had happened, and Hosea could hardly blame them. He relinquished his hold on the meat, letting Susan take over. The woman promising to make a hearty meal that might fill their bellies come morning. He thanked her, cordially, for her work. Referring to more than just the meal she had promised. His bones weary, aching as he turned to the room next.</p><p> </p><p>Unlike the others, Dutch was, infact, asleep. The man sat hunched over the in a chair he'd dragged in from the kitchen. He'd be sore when he woke, Hosea mused, watching him. The man's head rested on one arm that laid upon the bed. His other arm stretched out, hand still in Arthur's. About the only part of the boy that was uncovered.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn't shivering anymore. His skin, no longer ashen. His eyes closed as well, though his face was tight, no doubt battling against the pain that lingered there. There was a town nearby, perhaps half a day's ride away. He'd try to head down there tomorrow, see about getting something to help manage the pain. His list of necessary chores was growing by the minute it seemed.</p><p> </p><p>A problem he'd worry about later. He reached out, a hand resting on Arthur's forehead, feeling the warmth there. Warm—not hot. Pleased by that revelation. Hosea expected a fever; hell that might still yet to happen. But the lack of fever was a good sign for now.</p><p> </p><p>And Arthur stirred, under his touch. Lidded eyes cracking open a sliver, watching him. Voice garbled as he muttered. “'Sea?”</p><p> </p><p>Hosea gave him a soft smile, hushing him quietly. His voice a soft whisper. “Sorry, Arthur. Ain't mean to wake you—go on back to sleep now.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a grunt in response, though nothing more as his eyes drifted closed. Hosea left just as quiet, retreating back to the main room. He'd barely gotten a step in before Bessie sidle up near him, wrapping an arm about his. She too, looked tired, mirroring how he felt, though it didn't detour her from taking the lead. Guiding him over towards the couch. It was old, worn in spots, but fairly comfortable. Hosea sank down into the cushions with a sigh, relishing in Bessie's warmth at his side. Her head coming to a rest on his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“He'll be alright,” she told him gently. Though he could hear the hint of questioning in there. He squeezed her hand, fingers entwined in his. Certainty in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure he will; long as we keep infection from setting in.”</p><p> </p><p>“That ain't no shoddy patch job, I'll have you know Mr. Matthews,” Susan scolded him firmly, pressing the mug into his hand. The tea warm, soothing; just as she knew he liked it. “That boy ain't getting any infection; not if I have a say in it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I would never doubt you,” he raised the cup to her in mock toast, earning a scowl before she turned away. The warmth of the liquid chased away the chill that lingered in his bones. </p><p> </p><p>“He's strong,” Annabelle added in suddenly. She was sitting across from them. Warming her bones by the fire, a similar weariness on her face as well. Sleep something they all desperately needed, and yet unable to come by it seemed.</p><p> </p><p>“Always has been,” Hosea agreed. They were lucky. Damn lucky given the circumstances. Facing against a bear, unprepared as he had been, it was a bit of fortune things had not turned out worse. Because they could have been. Far far worse.</p><p> </p><p>He sipped at his tea, trying to chase away those unwanted thoughts. His mind drifting, turning towards other matters. Perhaps noticing just then. The lack of one, particular person.</p><p> </p><p>“How's John holding up?”</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't seen the kid; not since coming home in a flurry. John all but swept away in the madness. Now, in the early hour of the morning, the cabin seemed still. Far too still. It was feeble hope to presume the boy would be sleeping. Not after all that had happened.</p><p> </p><p>He watched as Annabelle nodded, gesturing over towards one corner. To a battered old table covered in threadbare cloth. The boots sticking out were easy to see, even from here.</p><p> </p><p>“Hiding under there since Dutch yelled at him,” Bessie sighed softly. “We've been trying to get him to come on out...but he won't budge.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that so?” Hosea wondered, raising his voice a little. “Well, surely there's better places to hide. Ones that aren't full of spiders, perhaps?”</p><p> </p><p>A smirk barely hidden as the kid came tumbling out, hands brushing at his clothes hastily. Hosea chuckled even as Bessie smacked him on the arm. The grin still wide on his face as he watched John turn, trying to check himself over in mild panic.</p><p> </p><p>“Best you come on over here, make sure you ain't got any crawling on you.”</p><p> </p><p>He got a frown in response, John watching him warily. Though he shuffled over slowly with a bit more prompting.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on up now; plenty of room between us here.”</p><p> </p><p>There was hardly an hesitation anymore. The boy crawling up and wriggling his way in between the pair of them. Clutched onto Bessie's arm, all the while resting his head against Hosea's side. He let out a smile, watching him. John was in every way different from Arthur. Small, gangly, nervous, effusive. Where Arthur shied away from affection, John ate it up in every sense. Thrived on it. He was all too happy to sit there, soaking their warmth. His voice utterly small as he murmured.</p><p> </p><p>“Is Arthur gonna die?”</p><p> </p><p>The serenity suddenly gone. Disappeared with those few words.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur's gonna be just fine,” Hosea reassured him, arm wrapping him up in the close hug. The kid had only been with them a few months, but as he had with Arthur, Hosea had taken to him quickly. There was an undeniable fondness in his heart for the pair of them. The whole reason his heart twisted at the soft whine.</p><p> </p><p>“He <em>looks</em><span> dead.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>He's sleeping,” Hosea corrected him after a pause. It had taken him a moment to gather himself. To banish darker thoughts wanting to creep in. “Which is what </span><em>you</em><span> should be doing.” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was hardly a response to that. Just a disgruntled sigh. John suddenly entranced by his hands, fingers fiddling nervously with the edges of his shirt. Watching him hit heavily all of the sudden. Something sinking deep into his chest—the realization that Arthur hadn't been the only one to suffer this night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John had been there. John had seen it all—seen Arthur nearly torn to ribbons right in front of him. Then he had made the ride back home, alone. No doubt set upon by the gruesome image of Arthur's injuries. Arthur might be lucky in a way—come morning there was a chance he wouldn't even remember what transpired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The same couldn't be said about John. The trauma resting heavy in his features. Captured in his nervous movements. If anything, Hosea held him tighter. Bessie too, the pair of them holding him close as though they could chase away the terror this night had wrought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Things will be alright,” he promised them gently. Warmly. “You'll see.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I shot Daisy,” John blurted out. Suddenly, without prompting. His voice in a high squeak. He felt Bessie shift near him, could hear the surprised utterances from the others. Though Hosea didn't share in that surprise. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He'd pieced it together. Between John's half-delirious ramblings earlier, and the further inspection of Daisy. It hadn't been difficult. But he feigned surprise anyway. Curiosity, rather than anger. Doing his best to hide his disappointment. He'd wanted to encourage him to open up, rather than shy away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh? Why...I ain't even known you had a gun?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I took it,” he whispered quietly, eyes still averted. “Took it from Arthur's saddle, when he weren't looking.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>You're a clever little thief, for sure,” Hosea shook his head, “though I think too clever for your own good. I suppose you were thinking of helping him hunt?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John shook his head quickly, small motions that were barely seen. “I was playin'...pretending, and—it, I ain't think it would fire. I ain't mean to hurt her, really I didn't!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Course you ain't mean it,” Hosea agreed. Softly. Solemnly. His lips pursed together. “Though I suppose meaning really don't matter much, does it?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was another shake of his head, a soft cry that broke free from him. Something unintelligible muttered from his lips as he twisted his fingers further into his shirt. Hosea reached down, clutching those trembling hands in his. Holding them tight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Calm on down now. Ain't no one gonna get after you—I think you done learned an important lesson as it stands. Don't you?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A nod this time, John burying his head into his chest. Hosea hushed him gently, sharing a sad smile with Bessie. The kid learning, perhaps in the cruelest ways, a much needed lesson. He was, for the most part, a good kid with a penchant for trouble. And that proclivity towards mischief hadn't brought anything too detrimental. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Until now.</p><p> </p><p>He waited for the kid to calm. John lost in his tears, crying softly in the folds of his jacket. A much needed release of pent of emotions that had no doubt been swirling inside of him. Eventually too spent to continue, opting to just lay there instead, curled up halfway in his lap by now.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea let out a sigh, doing his best to banish the weariness in his voice. “Tell you what—tomorrow you can come on down with me, and we'll give her a proper burial. What do you say?”</p><p> </p><p>He heard the kid sniff. Felt him shrug. Hosea prompting him a little more.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh come now; we'll go on and find her a nice spot. Bessie can help you make a marker before we go; give us something to remember her by. It'll make Arthur happy, knowing we took care of her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur ain't like me very much,” he muttered dryly.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, he likes you just fine,” Hosea told him gently. Warmly. Though he watched as John shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“He ain't; least not now, seeing as what I all did.”</p><p> </p><p>“Way I see it, you saved his life,” Hosea pointed out. Trying to pour as much admiration into his voice as he could. “You were so brave; finding your way back here, all on your own. Getting me and Dutch out there; if you hadn't—well, let's not think on that too much. Point is, John, you did good, with what you had.”</p><p> </p><p>“He's gonna hate me,” the kid murmured softly. Pathetically. More a whimper than words.</p><p> </p><p>“That's not going to happen.”</p><p> </p><p>“He was so mad,” he whispered, his voice trailing. </p><p> </p><p>Yet something else that wasn't a surprise. He could well imagine exactly what Arthur all had to say about that situation. He knew how fond of Daisy he'd been. Near inseparable, until Achilles had come along. Even then it had been difficult to convince him to take to halfbred. Convinced only by the fact they'd promised to keep her around. To not sell her off. Hosea could only imagine all what Arthur struggled with, in those moments. Knowing full well what Arthur had done; how hard it had been.</p><p> </p><p>Wounds like that didn't heal easily. He let out a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur is—well, he's complicated. He's a lot of things, John, but he isn't without compassion,” Hosea explained quietly. “Now, he's gonna be upset, and rightly so, seeing as all what happened. But you just watch, it'll all work out. Now, I may be the finest conman around—but I wouldn't lie to you, John. You have my word on that.”</p><p> </p><p>It was perhaps a failed attempt at a rousing speech. Like the ones that Dutch so favored. He wasn't Dutch though, and the exhaustion that nipped at him perhaps sucked some of that vigor and grandeur he was hoping for. Yet he watched John, the kid soaking in those words. Settled into his hold as he was. Trying, and failing to fight off a yawn.</p><p> </p><p>Hosea let out a knowing smile. Feeling his own weariness eat away at him. He gave John a firm pat, squeezing his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on now, get some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us. A few big days, in fact. Gonna expect you to step up, fill in for Arthur while he recovers. Sound alright?”</p><p> </p><p>A dull nod. Hosea unsure if John truly meant it, or if he was agreeing just for agreements sake. Unwilling to pitch a fit, or start a protest. Lord did he know how to, if he surely wanted. Always finding a way to weasel out of work, that one was. So it was perhaps a blessing he was too drained to do much of either right now. Tomorrow  however, might be another story he knew.</p><p> </p><p>But Hosea figured that he'd worry about that tomorrow.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, some of you called out the fact they could use the bear, and you guys were right! Why let a perfectly good bear go to waste, right? </p><p>But, here we are. John confessed, he gets a bit of a talking too. Maybe a little gentler than he deserves, but honestly, I think he's traumatized enough with seeing all of that. Nothing better than experience, right? </p><p>And, for once, Dutch kept his promise. He didn't go anywhere :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He woke slowly. Steadily. Senses sharpening to the world around him.</p><p> </p><p>Sounds first.</p><p> </p><p>The crackling of a fire. The shuffling of feet. The creak of old wooden boards. Voices; a conversation he couldn't quite latch on to. Meaning lost behind a curtain of fog.</p><p> </p><p>Sensation followed those sounds. His perception, muddy, but slowly understanding. Realizing. The softness beneath him. Heavy and coarse blankets above him. A tenderness that seized his entire arm. Not quite pain—no; something softer, though still unpleasant.</p><p> </p><p>As was the bitter taste in his mouth. He wet his lips with his tongue. Tried at least. Surely didn't help that it was dry as bone.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>He knew that voice. Knew that he knew it, but for whatever reason his mind was churning far too slow. Ideas muddled and falling together, a dull attempt to figure it out. He tried to ask; though instead of words, it was a series of coughs. Throat sore and tender and dry. Too dry. It left him wincing. Wanting for...something. What he didn't know. Couldn't quite piece it together.</p><p> </p><p>He was moving, suddenly. A rather, strange and unwanted sensation, but it faded as something was pressed against his lips.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Cup. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His brain supplied the solitary word.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Water.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Yet another, vague realization. Drinking greedily, noticing only then on just how thirsty he was. The water not coming nearly quick enough. He reached up with a hand, a faint attempt to guzzle it even quicker. The voice chiding him, though it was soft in nature.</p><p> </p><p>“Easy, Arthur—nice and slow now.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur drew in a ragged breath soon as the cup was pulled away. Eyes blinking in the darkened room, fuzzy and wholly out of focus.</p><p> </p><p>“You with me, son?”</p><p> </p><p>Dutch.</p><p> </p><p>The voice; it belonged to Dutch. Arthur turning, ever so slowly, towards the sound. Seeing him there, sat near his bedside. Hopeful eyes watching, lips drawn tight in a grimace. He looked—wholly unkempt. Dark circles underneath his eyes, dark curls of hair loose and untamed. The faint shadow of stubble, something which Dutch never let grow.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p> </p><p>“You look like shit,” Arthur said, more a whisper than a sound. The retort catching Dutch unaware, the man taken aback. Only for a moment; he was always quick with wit.</p><p> </p><p>“Don't think you're one to talk, son,” the man shook his head, the faint indication of a smile creasing his face.</p><p> </p><p>Relief, if he knew any better.</p><p> </p><p>“How you—how you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>It was a strange, odd question. Dutch rarely asked that of him. How he got on, for sure—whenever he'd been set out to do a task. But never more. That was Hosea's prerogative. Eagle-eyed as the man was, he was always the one to poke and prod and wonder.</p><p> </p><p>Not Dutch.</p><p> </p><p>Never Dutch.</p><p> </p><p>And for a moment, for one long breadth of silence, Arthur found himself unsure. Of what to say, or even how to say whatever it was he was supposed to say. Mouth hung slightly ajar as he tried to catch words that were far too quick for his sluggish brain to grab.</p><p> </p><p>He flinched, feeling the hand settle on his brow. Dutch stilling his movements that Arthur hadn't even seen. Something strange etched into his face as he watched him.</p><p> </p><p>“Easy, son—it's alright. You were—you were drifting off on me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ain't mean nothin' by it,” he breathed, blinking slowly. He knew how Dutch hated that; his lack of attention. The man grew flustered whenever Arthur deigned to his willful nature, preferring to let his thoughts wander rather than subject himself to whatever tirade the man was spouting on about. It wasn't intentional, or at least it wouldn't be, if the man wasn't so damn mundane at times.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Dutch chuckled softly, watching him still, “I suppose for once you don't. That morphine Hosea was so kind in...confiscating... has certainly done a number on you. But you ain't hurting—least, you ain't seem to be. You aren't...hurting, are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Morphine—that explained some of it at least. Arthur swallowing dryly as he shook his head. Wasn't so much as pain as it was...strange. He couldn't quite find the right words for it. Floating, maybe. On a dry river—which made no fucking sense at all, but it was the best he could come up with.</p><p> </p><p>“Good, that’s… that’s good,” Dutch nodded stoutly. Proudly, almost. As though it had been all his doing. “You uh—your arm. Got it chewed up right good, but Susan...Miss Grimshaw; she's the best damn seamstress on this side of the mountains. Well, except for that one man we met back in Colorado.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur frowned at that, mind slow, but quickening. Trying to grasp onto the words the man was saying. Dutch must have seen the look on his face, because he was talking again. Elaborating.</p><p> </p><p>“You know?” he prompted, nudging him gently, “he's the one that mended that suit; for that job we ran.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Christ,” Arthur cursed lightly, eyes closing as the memory hit him. “Yeah—I remember <em>him</em><span>.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>He was a marvel, I am telling you—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>What the hell you going on 'bout?” he drawled, opening his eyes once more, “That shit fell apart at the seams, I was damn near naked by the time we got out of there.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>That you were. You were quite a sight; remember how you refused to go back to camp? Made me and Hosea ride on in, bring you back something decent,” Dutch laughed mirthfully. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Like hell was I gonna ride in like </span><em>that </em><span>in front of the ladies,” he shook his head, watching him. “I told Hosea that I didn' want to dress-up in the first place. You fools done rode my ass wanting to know why, well that's why.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>It was </span><em><span>one</span></em><span> time,” Dutch shook his head. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Yeah—and that's all it's gonna be, cause I ain't gonna do something like that again. Ever,” he shook his head, frowning. “'Sides, it feels wrong; all them fancy clothes. Who the hell wears that shit anyhow? You can't move in 'em.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>People who like to torture themselves for societal sake,” the man rolled his eyes, smirking. “But you don't have to worry none, seeing as Grimshaw patched you up,and not him; she's rather insistent that her stitching will hold, unlike that suit. You'll have some right nasty scars, but at least you still got your arm.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Ain't busted?” he breathed, memories surfacing slowly. Of the pain, the sheer agony. Vivid enough to make him wince. He hadn't tried to move it yet; he hadn't tried to move anything if he was honest. Far too content to lay prone right where he was. His limbs felt heavy anyway; weighted down by nothing. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Nothing's busted,” Dutch reassured him, “you got jostled around a bit; that's all. Though I wont lie—you did give us quite the scare, son.” </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Scared myself,” he hummed dully, swallowing just then. Words hesitant, stuck in his throat. “Thanks—for uh, for coming for me. I appreciate it.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arthur wasn't prepared when Dutch moved. Surprised and somewhat unsettled as the man reached out, fingers lacing through his, his one good hand settled between the both of his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Course we came,” Dutch pressed, watching him close. “Don't tell me you thought we was just gonna leave you.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Wouldn't blame you</span>… <span>if you had,” Arthur admitted weakly, trying to pull away. He didn't like lingering touches. Did his best to avoid anything more than the standard pat on the shoulder, or routine hug that Bessie and Annabelle forced onto him. Hell, he barely tolerated that—though his efforts to pull away here were less than genuine, seeing how anxious Dutch was. The man watching him with sullen surprise. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Arthur—you're like a son to me...to us. To all of us; we wouldn't have just—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Meant more like it weren't great. All this—coming out into a storm 'n all,” he explained. Or at least tried to. His excuses too jumbled and sounding pathetically weak all at once. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Ain't even a hurricane that'd keep me away; Hosea neither—hell, if it wasn't for him, we'd still be out looking for you, I think. Man's got a good head on his shoulders; we're lucky to have him.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>For sure,” Arthur agreed, finally slipping free of his hold, Dutch letting him go with reluctance. Arthur was quick in clearing his throat, desperate to change the topic. To something else. Anything else. “Kid okay?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>John?” the man seemed dumbfounded at that question, blinking. “John's fine—</span>wiry as<span> ever. The ladies have been keeping him quite busy these past days, keeping him out of trouble. Building his character, they like to call it, though he</span>…<span> you alright, son?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He must have noticed. Must have seen the pallor that had coated his face. Arthur could feel it, deep down into his bones, his mind whirling, those few words sinking into the depths of consciousness. He was only pulled out that revere when he felt a hand on his shoulder, Arthur turning to meet his concerned gaze.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Arthur?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Sorry,” he breathed, his voice suddenly thin. Strained. “You uh, you said—how long I been down?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>About four days, I reckon. You—the morphine did you in pretty good, I think. You woke a few times, but I don't think you were re</span><span>ally</span>, uh… awake..<span>.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dutch explained. He rambled. All the while Arthur lay there. Processing. Unbelieving as that small tidbit sank in. Unhearing as the man carried on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He'd been like this for </span>
  <em>four</em>
  <span> days. Nearly a week had gone by. A week in which the others had carried on. Working. Surviving. Providing. And what had he been doing? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Laying here stupidly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kept after like he was some—some </span>
  <em>child</em>
  <span> that needed keeping after. He closed his eyes, hearing Dutch continue to drone, voice echoing in his ears. </span>
  <em>Four goddamned days</em>
  <span>; he needed to get up. He needed to get moving. He couldn't afford to just lay here, doing nothing. </span>
  <em>They </em>
  <span>couldn't afford that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yet the thought of moving soured him. The sheer effort of thinking, alone, had done him in. He wasn't sure if he could. But he knew he had to try. No wonder Dutch was hovering anxiously. The man most likely wondering if he was of any worth anymore. Dutch didn't tolerate ineptitude. Nor weakness, nor laziness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wanted results. Strength. Fortitude. Grit. None of which he currently was. That thought hurting perhaps worst of all. Curse him and his weakness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck,” </em><span>he swore bitterly. Angrily. His stomach tight in apprehension. He heard Dutch's droning stop, something changing the man's voice. It was thickly lined with worry. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Arthur? You alright? You hurting? I can get you something, if you need—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I'm fine,” Arthur drawled, waving him off weakly, embarrassed by his outburst. “Just—gimme a minute.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Of course,” the man responded, apprehensive, though seemingly understanding. “Whatever you need.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Just need a minute,” Arthur reiterated, trying his best to sound confident. “I'll get on up here, see what needs doing.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a pause. A beat of silence, before it was filled with indignation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Have you last your mind?”</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arthur cracked an eye open at that, watching him. A deep frown marring Dutch's face. Confusion in its finest coating Arthur's. “Come again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>You will do nothing of the sort,” Dutch told him staunchly, “now, I know that you're a bit thick-headed at times, but you aren't in any shape to be getting on.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Folk gotta eat, Dutch,” Arthur pointed out weakly. He hadn't done the one, simple task he'd been sent out to do. And that had been days ago. They must just be getting by, if even that. And Arthur knew all too well the sorrows of hunger. Even now he could feel the tight pain in his gut, the emptiness that had been his constant companion in his younger years. And being as they were, where they were, Arthur knew the options for food was limited. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>We got that all handled,” Dutch consoled him, “only thing I want you to concern yourself on is getting better. Getting strong. You hear me?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Dutch—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Don't you </span><em>'Dutch'</em><span> me,” the man cut him off. Not even letting him finish his protest. “I ain't playing, Arthur. Christ, you—you nearly </span><em>died.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh yeah?” he wondered, trying to jest, even though it was dull. “Shoulda seen the other guy.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh trust me, I certainly did,” there was a grin on his face despite the situation. “Damn was he a big one.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Nasty too.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Ain't know how you managed it, son,” the man shook his head, “I would have been terrified.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Who says I weren't?” Arthur wondered, watching him. Admitting. “Damn thing scared the shit outta me; just about came out of nowhere.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t let Hosea hear you say that, he’ll lecture you on your story-tellin'. You gotta embellish a little more, spin a few lies…whatever happened, though,<span> you're here, and </span>that <em>thing</em><span> ain't, so that counts for something,” Dutch pointed out with a nod. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Suppose so,” he agreed dully, thoughts drifting. Remembering. Not just the horrifying attack, but all that had transpired before it. Breath thick in his throat as he swallowed. “I—I had to put Daisy down.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was something forlorn on Dutch's face, the man nodding slow after a moment. “I heard. John told me—what happened. I am, so sorry, son.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Compassion; something he wasn't rightly used to. The words thickly coated in sympathy. It hit him so suddenly he had to turn away, lest he make a fool of himself. Even so the tears burned in his eyes, unshod. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Ain't nothing, Dutch—just a horse, is all.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Stop that,” the man chided him. Firm, annoyed, compassionate. “I know you loved her.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>She was a good one,” he whispered, still unable to meet his gaze. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Real good one,” the man agreed, “Hosea and John—they went on down, took care of her proper. When you're doing better, I figure we'll</span><span> head on </span>over<span>.</span><span> Say our goodbyes. You'd like that?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would. Though he was unable to muster words, sufficing with a nod instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Good,” Dutch nodded, seemingly appeased. He sat up, stiffened a little. “We'll give it a few days, get you feeling right as rain</span><span>, then </span>get moving<span>. Hosea says there's a town—about a day from here. It's small, but I reckon we can set up there, give us all a breather</span>. We could all damn well use a break.<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Whatever happened with Northbank?” he wondered curiously, referring to the last place they left behind </span>in a whirlwind<span>. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<em>Things,”</em><span> the man dismissed it casually, without any elaboration or fanfare. Not that Arthur really needed it. He knew Dutch wouldn't have dragged them through all that hellish weather for nothing. “Plans fell through—we </span>made<span> new ones. Nothing new there.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Guess not,” Arthur agreed, understanding. Smirking just then, “Though I must say your new plans ain't looking so good.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Why Arthur,” Dutch seemed taken aback, “Had I wanted to feed you to a bear, I would have just dragged you to the circus.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>They ain't got no bears at the circus,” he argued bluntly. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Sure they do—it's all the rage, nowadays.</span>”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell is you on about— what business would a bear have in a damn circus? I mean what— they gonna paint the thing like a clown? Ask it to juggle?”</p><p> </p><p>Dutch stared at him wide eyed. Discerning. Trying to tell if Arthur was joking or not.</p><p> </p><p>“They— no, they just look at ‘em, maybe have the beasts do a few tricks— ain’t you never seen the posters?<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p><span>He rolled his eyes, turning away as he muttered. “</span>Ain’t never paid much attention; n' how should I know anyhow? Seeing as I never been to a circus.<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Never?” </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>No,” he answered sourly, frowning as the man chuckled. Feeling something akin to shame burning in his chest. “That amuses you, does it? Sorry, </span>Dutch—reckon <span>I was too busy tryin' to not die when I was kid. Ain't never had time for shows, or spectacles, or whatever you call them.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Don't be bitter,” the man scolded him. “Tell you what; next time we happen upon one, I'll go on an take you. </span>Could be good opportunity for some money, now that I think about it. Bunch of rich folk, distracted by all the glamour. Easy pickings. Long as you don't get distracted yourself.<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>You ain't serious—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Sure I am,” Dutch cut him off. “They are quite something, that's for sure. It'll be entertaining, and profitable. <em>If</em> we play our cards right.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>You are something else, you know that?” Arthur shook his head. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>It'll be fun,” the man pressed, grinning still. “</span>We’ll make a whole day of it<span>—John too, I reckon.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Good idea; se</span>ll<span> him as a sideshow attraction,” h</span><span>e muttered. “</span><em>World's mangiest raccoon, </em><span>or somethin. </span>Might earn us a buck or too, even.<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Well, at least that bear ain't done your sense of humor in,” Dutch shook his head. “John knows he did wrong. Just—give him some time.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Time to do what? </span>Shoot somethin <em>else</em> that matters to me? Maybe next time he’ll leave a bullet in Hosea, and I can put <em>him</em> down too.<span>”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh hush. Ain</span>’t no one getting shot. <span>We'll take him out; you and I, teach him how to handle a gun proper.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh, for sure, </span>make it all the easier for him to kill us,<span>” he snapped, annoyed. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Arthur,” Dutch sighed, trying to defuse the situation. He pushed back strands of stray hair that had fallen in front of his face. “I know you're angry—you have every right to be—but he's just a kid. You can't stay angry with him</span> <span>forever.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<em>I sure as hell can.”</em></p><p> </p><p>"Arthur," Dutch pleaded, this tone thin. </p><p> </p><p><span>He could stay angry. He could. In fact, if he had any wherewitha</span>l<span>, any coordination at all, </span><span>he'd get on up, and beat the boy senseless. The spark of anger was sudden, sitting tight in his throat. Short-lived as it were. Arthur did his best to swallow it down, drawing a sharp breath in through his nose. Calming himself.<br/>
</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I</span>…<span> I ain't </span><em>angry,</em><span>” he muttered after a moment. Partly a lie. Partly a truth. Mostly confliction. “Just—all this, you know? It's a lot.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Oh, I know—trust me when I say none of us have fared very well. Not til we knew you were gonna be okay. And you will be; you're gonna be just fine.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Sure,” he agreed. That agreement barely out of his mouth with his stomach turned. An audible growl reaching from the depths and shattering the silence. He winced inwardly, a burn in his cheeks at the embarrassment. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard Dutch laugh. Something mirthful in his voice. “I take it you're hungry?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Starved,” he admitted, the emptiness of his stomach all too apparent now that he was woken. Aware. He </span>hadn't been hungry<span> like this for a long while; since he was a kid, he figured. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Well, let's see about getting that taken care of, what do you say?” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not a question. Not really; or if was one, it was rhetorical. Dutch hollering over his shoulder, not even bothering getting up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Hosea! Old girl, why don't you bring on a bowl? Get some food down our boy.”<br/>
</span></p><p>
  <span>There was a holler in response, though what precisely was missed by Arthur. Dutch had turned back to him, a wide grin on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>You ever ha</span>d<span> bear, before?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Well, </span>no...<span>” he pointed out after a moment</span>, “... But one’s had me.”</p><p> </p><p>Dutch chuckled at that, something genuine and warm,<span> “I think you'll like it—sides' you have to admit there's a bit of poetry to it all; eating something that had it in mind to eat you.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grinned at that, turning as Hosea came in. The warmth all too apparent in the man's face as he passed the bowl off to Dutch, who took it all too eagerly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>So, our wounded warrior finally decided to grace us with an appearance?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Good to see you, Hosea,” Arthur nodded up at him, even as he struggled to sit up. Between the three of them, they managed, settling him back against the pillows, ever mindful of his bandaged arm. The bowl sat, warm and hearty, balanced on his legs. A few ladlefuls, was all. Still his mouth watered at the aroma. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Gonna have to start calling you Grizzly Morgan, I think,” Hosea carried on, leaning against the wall. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Please don't,” he all but pleaded, spooning a small bite into his mouth. Near relishing in the flavor; gamier than deer. Sweeter. A heartiness that danced on his tongue. Or would have, had he paused long enough to actually appreciate it.</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Slow down before you choke,” Dutch chided him—his warning falling on deaf ears. Arthur far too taken by ravenous hunger.</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Ain't much to choke on in there,” Hosea reassured him. “Mostly broth—figure we'll start small. Work up from there. It's good though, ain't it?”<br/>
</span></p><p>
  <span>He nodded; still far to busy trying to inhale what little they'd given him to actually answer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Well, you hold that on down alright, we'll try some actual meat,” Hosea prompted, carrying on. “We saved you a good chunk out of your spoils; seeing as you did all the work to bring that thing down. Though you're supposed to shoot them, not wrestle them.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I'll remember that for next time,” Arthur managed out, scraping the bottom of the bowl. Wanting. His stomach hardly appeased. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>There will </span><em>not</em><span> be a next time,” Dutch grumbled indignantly. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>What?” Hosea wondered, turning towards him. “You gonna go out, hunt them all down?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>If I have to,” the man didn't miss a beat. </span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>The great Dutch Van der Linde; Bear Hunter Extraordinaire—don't really have the right ring to it, if you ask me.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>That's because you lack simple foresigh</span><span>t. </span><em>Clearly</em><span> I would p</span>ick a better monicker.<span>”</span><span><br/>
</span></p><p>“Think what you will—I <span>actually think logically; rather than be caught up in fantasies,” Hosea shook his head. “Like it or not, way we live? He's gonna run into another one, sooner or later. I'd rather he know how to take them down. Maybe this summer, we'll head on out. Get some practice in. What do you think, Arthur?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sat there, dumbly. Mind wrapping around the comment. He didn't much like the prospect of facing another one of those things. But he knew Hosea was right; he'd rather know how to handle one. Properly. Slowly, he nodded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he yawned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something he couldn't stop, nor fight off. The stew sitting heavy in his stomach. Warm. Comforting. And he could feel the tired ache crawling through his bones. Barely blinking as Dutch pulled the empty bowl from his lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Come on then—let's get back in bed.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I am in bed,” he muttered dryly, wincing as he was helped back down. Hardly fighting though, too content to settle back down in the warm folds of the mattress. The blankets drawn back over him from where they'd been disturbed.</span></p><p> </p><p><span>It didn't take long. He drifted off, l</span>ulled by thoughts of bear meat and successful hunts.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah yes - hopefully this hit some good comfort notes. :)</p><p>Can you imagine? Dutch taking them all to a circus? For a job, of course. Strictly professional. After all, they do need money, right?</p><p>;)</p><p>See you all later!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took a few days before he felt strong enough to get out of bed, and yet another day after that before the others allowed him to entertain such a thought. His resounding efforts had gotten him from laying in bed, to sitting on the couch in the next room. A small achievement, one he nonetheless celebrated. Still, he hated that he was was lounging away while the rest of the them worked.</p><p> </p><p>Save for Dutch, of course—the man had taken up occupancy in the bed shortly after Arthur had vacated it. Finally allowing himself to collapse into his exhaustion, a result of the many hours spent worrying by his side. Last he heard, Dutch was sleeping soundly. As it was, if Arthur listened close, he could hear the man's snore from here.</p><p> </p><p>Those peaceful thoughts and that gentle snore was drowned out by everything else. Grimshaw and Annabelle bickered mere feet away, hotly debating...something. Their strained whispers too jumbled for Arthur to decipher fully. Apparently, from what he could discern, there was a right way, and a wrong way to cook a rabbit, and each held tightly to their own opinion while fighting over said rabbit. He'd heard stuff go scattering more than once, and each time he'd tried to get up to see what exactly the new dispute was, only for Bessie to stop him.</p><p> </p><p>With a gentle pull, and firm gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“Leave it, Arthur,” she had warned him when he tried to protest. “There's nothing to be done when they get like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Rate they're going, they gonna kill someone,” he grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>“So let 'em. It's no problem of yours.”</p><p> </p><p>He relented, settling himself back down on the couch. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was tired. Worn and exhausted despite the fact he'd done nothing but sleep these past days.</p><p> </p><p>And even the time he was awake, it wasn't like he was doing anything. Not like the others. Grimshaw and Annabelle kept the fires going, and food cooking. Hosea and John kept themselves busy seeing after the horses. Even Bessie was keeping herself occupied, mending clothes. His clothes, to be exact.</p><p> </p><p>His shirt and and jacket had been too ruined to save, but the same fate did not befall his pants. And Bessie had seen to it herself to work on patching up the tears despite Arthur's attempt to her not to bother. That he had another pair, and could always get more.</p><p> </p><p>“And waste good money?” she had scoffed at that comment, “you have any idea how expensive new clothes are?”</p><p> </p><p>He did. Not to mention his lack of enthusiasm in shopping for said clothes. So if there was a chance in saving them, he'd be grateful. Something he told her as well, even though it was a bother. It earned him a smile, Bessie nudging him gently in the side.</p><p> </p><p>“It no bother; I'm just glad I still have a reason to fix them.”</p><p> </p><p>He caught on quick to her meaning. It was all anyone would tell him. How lucky they were that he was alive. How grateful, how blessed.</p><p> </p><p>A fact he'd been told over time and time again. By Dutch, by Hosea, by Grimshaw and Annabelle—he'd heard it so many times now it was getting old. Even if he still felt that apprehensive flutter in his chest whenever he let his mind wander.</p><p> </p><p>He was still afraid. Much as he hated to admit it.</p><p> </p><p>He could still see it. That moment played over and over in his mind. He could still hear that deafening roar, could feel the way it thundered through his bones. Could still see its teeth, could feel the breath warm against his skin. And his arm—</p><p> </p><p>His arm still hurt. Not like it had before. Not like the sheer agony that had plagued him, rendering him to tears like some pitiful infant. He hadn't ever hurt that bad before. Hadn't even thought it possible. Still, he was ashamed at his actions. Cheeks burning hot each time the memory surfaced.</p><p> </p><p>He hated it. Hated himself for how weak he'd been. Hated how, that even now, he couldn't do shit with it. Hosea had told him it'd get better. For now, arm had been wrapped in thick bandages and he'd been warned about using it. As though he needed a fucking warning, seeing as it was hard to even move. A tender ache had set itself up in his bones, causing him to wince each time he tried.</p><p> </p><p>Not that there was much to try seeing as he was just sitting here. They hadn't even let him help with the packing. The plan, apparently, was to head out come the morning, seeing he had been able to stay awake most of the day rather than succumbed to the pull of exhaustion. He was looking forward to getting out, seeing as he was never one for such lassitude, but another part of him was apprehensive. Wondering <em>if </em>he could ride, or <em>if </em>they'd even let him.</p><p> </p><p>He could sit well enough, and Arthur felt as though Achilles was tempered enough to handle even with one arm. But Dutch had been strangely overbearing these last few days, down to a point where it had passed endearment and entered into annoyance. He had a feeling that man would insist he take to the wagon with the women. There was a part of him that wanted to know, but it was overshadowed by the anxiety of being dismissed, so he kept silent. Come tomorrow, Arthur figured he'd simply haul himself into the saddle before anyone could protest, and go from there.</p><p> </p><p>Provided Achilles was already tacked. The thought cast a deep frown on his face. There was no way in hell he'd be able to get a saddle on that beast with just one arm. Realizing just then his plans might already be foiled, long before it even had begun. That the decision had already been made subconsciously for him.</p><p> </p><p>He scowled. Maybe it was better if he just asked. At least he'd know then. Perhaps he could appeal to Hosea's compassionate nature in hopes that the man would understand his plea. And it was as though his thoughts had summoned the man himself, because in the next moment, the door opened. Hosea and John both pushing their way inside.</p><p> </p><p>Along with a burst of cold. A flurry of snow. Grimshaw in a hurry, chastising them to shut the door before they let all that cold in. Her petulance was met was a meager apology from Hosea, and from John, a scowl set deep on his face. He was bedraggled, strands of hair plastered against his reddened cheeks with snow clung to his clothes.</p><p> </p><p>“You're cold? You weren't out there workin' like us.”</p><p> </p><p>“You mind yourself,” Hosea warned him, pushing the kid towards the kitchen. “Go wash up now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wash up?” he seemed offended by that suggestion, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I ain't even dirty.”</p><p> </p><p>“You were just shoveling horse shit,” Hosea pressed, taking off his coat.</p><p> </p><p>“With a <em>shovel</em>,” John bit back, “ain't like I used my hands—”</p><p> </p><p>“For christs sakes, Marston,” Arthur snapped, “will you just do what you're goddamn told, for once?”</p><p> </p><p>It shut him up, surprisingly. John's head snapping in his direction quickly, mouth slightly agape. As though he hadn't been aware Arthur was even there, or perhaps he hadn't expected him to be up. His eyes went wide for a half a second, before narrowing, his mouth snapped shut as he stomped off towards the barrel of water that had been collected.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur felt a glow of triumph at that, of smug satisfaction. Whispers of vindication tickling his mind. An assuredly conceited smile on his face as Hosea sat down next to him with a worn sigh.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, it is good to see you up—but go easy on John, will ya?”</p><p> </p><p>“That <em>was </em>easy,” Arthur pointed out, settling back against the couch, sinking into the cushions. “Damn fool needs to learn to mind, 'fore he gets us all killed.”</p><p> </p><p>“John knows he messed up,” Hosea reminded him, watching him close. “I know things ain't quite worked out for the best, but please, for all our sakes, go easy on him. He's just a kid.”</p><p> </p><p>As though John's transgressions could be forgiven so easily. His damn horse was dead, Arthur nearly along with it, and hell he'd half expected that bear had been drawn out by the scent of fresh blood in the first place. Him being angry wasn't even the start of it. It was more an afterthought, a residual effect. The pain of loss, the frustration at being laid up, the agitation of being caught up in all this—Arthur let out a sigh, shaking his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Still ain't too late to drop him off at an orphanage, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur!” Hosea scolded him, though loosely. A wry grin on the older man's face as he reached up, patting him on the back. “He's not that different from you, I hope you realize.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hell he is.”</p><p> </p><p>“You got into just as much trouble, if not more,” the man pressed, “and Dutch and I never thought about leaving you at one of them places.”</p><p> </p><p>“I was too old,” Arthur pointed out happily, “nobody would have taken me.”</p><p> </p><p>“As much as hell raiser as you were?” Hosea shook his head with a laugh, “I suppose you're right on that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Even at my worst, weren't like I ever killed any horses.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, you just preferred putting down the two-legged specimens. Dutch and I were running that scam back in Montana, and you kicked up that ruckus with that one fella. You remember?”</p><p> </p><p>He did. It had not been one of his finest moments. He'd been drunk, had gotten into it with another drunken fool. Insults had led to swings, swings had led to full blown fight amongst the entire bar. In the end, at least three fools were dead, and while Arthur couldn't remember killing all of them, he knew he'd done in at least one. Knew, because Dutch had pried his fingers off the prone man's throat, right before dragging them out of there.</p><p> </p><p>They had to abandoned the whole operation, and Arthur could well remember the lectures that had followed. As well as the cold shoulder, the snide comments, the belittling actions. It didn't matter how many times he'd apologized, or what he had done to try and make amends, Dutch had held that grudge of losing out on that score for weeks. It had been a pitifully cold and unwelcome atmosphere during that stretch of time.</p><p> </p><p>Guess this wasn't much different. Arthur let out a sigh, hand running wearily over his face in irritation. “Fine—I'll go easy on him. But I ain't forgiven him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let's not get into particulars,” Hosea nudged him gently. “How are you feeling?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thought we weren't getting into particulars.”</p><p> </p><p>“Reckon he's feeling better,” Bessie broke in, having listened in solemn silence until now. A mirth dancing in her voice. “He's been right testy.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>I've </em>been testy?” he raised an eyebrow at that, gesturing to the kitchen were the squabbling still continued. “I ain't the one fixing to deck someone over cooking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah,” Hosea followed his gaze, lips pulled into a thin smile. “And here I thought bringing back two rabbits would alleviate that problem.”</p><p> </p><p>“On the contrary, it's made it twice as bad,” Bessie told him.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, guess I'll head on in, see if I can appease the pair of them.”</p><p> </p><p>He left, almost as soon as John returned. The kid flopping down onto a bedroll spread out onto the floor near the fire. John had shot him a hurried look, turning away just as quick. Fidgety hands digging through the folds of blankets instead, pulling out his journal. Scribbling hastily on the page—what Arthur couldn't be sure. The kid had only started to learn his letters about a week ago.</p><p> </p><p>Still hadn't stopped John from beaming in pride when he got that damn journal. Hosea had gotten it for him, just as he'd gotten one for Arthur all those years back. And John was a piss poor student anyhow – always desperate to dodge out of lessons, or busying himself with other work whenever Hosea picked up that classic reader book they'd dredged up in a lone cabin somewhere.</p><p> </p><p>He turned, watching Bessie curiously when the woman nudged him. Watching as she nodded towards John with a pressing glance. Arthur let out a sigh, rolling his eyes. Trying to figure out what to say, to try and make amends.</p><p> </p><p>“Why the hell you sittin' on the floor?” he decided on. Not the most astute attempt, but it was something. “Got room right up here.”</p><p> </p><p>To his credit, John actually looked. Eyes flicking to the empty spot before darting back down to his lap. “'M good.”</p><p> </p><p>Another nudge. This time Arthur shot Bessie a growl, though it did little to amuse her. The woman pressing him once more. God damn irritating is what it was.</p><p> </p><p>He moved. Pushing himself to his feet with some effort. His leg still hurt, but at least he could walk without making a fool of himself like he did last time. Still sounded like a damn cripple, limping as he was, but he made it over alright, settling himself down on the bedroll next to John.</p><p> </p><p>“Whatcha doing there?”</p><p> </p><p>The kid stiffened, slamming the book closed when he tried to look. “Nothin'.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, nothing, is it?” Arthur wondered, reaching out with a sly grin.</p><p> </p><p>John gripped onto the book tighter, pulling away with a whine. “Arthur—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh come on, lemme see what you workin' on. Maybe give Hosea a break from dealing with all your bluff and actually teach you something useful for once.”</p><p> </p><p>The kid let out a scowl, but relented. Letting Arthur take the book. He flipped through the pages idly, skimming over the sloppy letters and shaky words. Stopping as he got to the last page, staring down at it dumbfounded. He was looking at...something. What he wasn't quite sure, but it almost looked like—like—</p><p> </p><p>“It ain't done yet,” John broke the silence. “Hosea said you might like something to remember her by. It was gonna be a surprise.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that Daisy?” his voice was thin as he traced his fingers over the lines. It was difficult, but if he really looked, he could just see it. John shifted near him, nodding.</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you might like a picture of her.”</p><p> </p><p>Picture was a rather generous way to describe the swath of messy scribbles. Even so, he felt his heart flutter a little. Shame and pride both swelling in his chest. At his own actions, for how he'd handled it all. For John, going out of his way to make amends. He remembered back to those weeks he'd spent in Dutch's shadow, trying to make things right.</p><p> </p><p>“This is—this is mighty kind of you, John,” he finally managed.</p><p> </p><p>“You like it?” he asked, watching him close, as though holding his breath.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur passed the book back to him, reassuring him. “Course I do. I'll go on, let you finish it up. Then we'll find someplace to put it so it don't get lost.”</p><p> </p><p>He beamed at that, the kid clutching the book as he took the pencil to it once more. Scratching more nonsensical lines to the already muddied fray. Arthur merely shook his head, but he he couldn't keep the smile off his face.</p><p> </p><p>“Heard you been keeping after the horses real well,” he started again, after a moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Hosea said I had to,” John grumped, not looking up from his drawing. “It ain't much fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it ain't,” he agreed, “but they need keeping after. Won't be for long, anyhow. I'll be better soon 'nough, and you won't have to worry 'bout it. Just—keep an eye on Achilles for me. Don't want him to think he's been forgotten, or somethin'.”</p><p> </p><p>“I snuck him treats, when Hosea weren't lookin',” he said with a wry smile.</p><p> </p><p>“You did, did ya?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “He's gonna be fat by the time I get him back. Provided he'll even want me back, with how you're spoiling him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don't think he likes me, much,” he frowned, shaking his head, “he's kind of scary.”</p><p> </p><p>“Achilles likes to bully, if you let him,” Arthur agreed. “But it sounds like you did good with him. Rode him all the way back to the cabin, by yourself? Now that's something to be proud of.”</p><p> </p><p>“I followed the tracks, just like you said,” John said hurriedly. Excited now, “I didn't think I could, but I did!”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure did,” Arthur agreed, laughing. “Real brave thing you did there—and I just want to say thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>That gave him pause, the kid frowning. “Why you thanking me for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, way I see it, if you hadn't gone, I wouldn't be here now. Guess I owe you one.”</p><p> </p><p>He shuffled, embarrassed at that. His cheeks red as stammered. “Course I went—I—what else was I supposed to do?”</p><p> </p><p>“You still did good,” Arthur reassured him. “And you'll do better; Dutch and I? We gonna teach you all sorts of things. First thing being is to take you on out, teach you how to shoot proper.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” he looked up at that, a grin across his face. Fallen suddenly in the next moment. “I mean—didn't think you'd want to, seeing what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened was unfortunate,” Arthur agreed, “but ain't nothing that can be done 'bout that now. Gotta move on, John. Teach you right, so it ain't happen again.”</p><p> </p><p>That stupid grin was back, the kid nodding in a hurry. “When we gonna start? Tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I don't know about that,” Arthur chuckled, “tomorrow we heading out of this place. Down to town, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hope it's warmer. I don't much like the snow no more.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me either, kid,” Arthur agreed quietly. He didn't think he'd ever forget the bite of the snow, the agony the cold had inflicted. Truth be told, he wasn't much a fan of heading out in that shit tomorrow, but it was a far better state than staying up, wasting away. Maybe riding the wagon wouldn't be so bad. It'd provide shelter from the wind, but he couldn't help but wince inwardly at that thought. Riding with the women, and John—seeing as the kid had nothing to ride.</p><p> </p><p>Unless...</p><p> </p><p>The thought hitting him suddenly. A smile snaking across his face just then. It was stupid, surely, but it had to work. He cleared his throat, catching John's attention.</p><p> </p><p>“You uh—you wanna ride with me, when he head out tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p>“With you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” he pressed, following with a nod. “You was getting real good with Daisy; figure I can teach you some things still. 'Sides that, ain't sure if I can ride on my own yet. Gonna need help.”</p><p> </p><p>He lifted his bandaged arm, what little could. Riding with John wasn't exactly how he'd planned to spend the day, but it came with benefits, he supposed. Dutch and Hosea both had an awfully hard time saying no to John; if the kid pestered them enough, they'd cave. Add in the fact that it'd saddle Arthur with keeping an eye on him, he figured the pair of them would give in without too much effort.</p><p> </p><p>Aside from that, they'd all look on at as reconciliation. The very thing both Dutch and Hosea had been pestering him about. Which was why he felt a smudge of satisfaction as John nodded in agreement.</p><p> </p><p>Looks like he wouldn't be riding in that damn wagon after all.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, reckon we both ought to get some sleep, after we eat,” Arthur nudged him, all the while moving to his own feet. “Gotta be well rested if you's gonna learn anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” John all but rolled his eyes, turning back to his journal. “<em>After</em> I finish your drawing.”</p><p> </p><p>He smiled at that, all the while making that short trip back to that couch. Ignoring Bessie's warm gaze that swept over him. Scowling as she pestered him.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Good to see you boys getting along, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>He rolled his eyes, settling back into the cushions. “Aw, well I reckon he ain't too bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Arthur,” she laughed, “you are something else, you know that?”</p><p> </p><p>He pursed his lips. “If you say so.”</p><p> </p><p>“You're a good man, Arthur,” she pressed. “And you'll figure that out, once you get it through that thick head of yours. Just you wait; you're still learning.”</p><p> </p><p>He scoffed, “If this is what learnin's all about, I ain't much interested.”</p><p> </p><p>And he wasn't. Because honestly?</p><p> </p><p>Learning hurt something awful.</p><p> </p><p>But it sure beat being dead.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No, I didn't forget I had this going. Between getting the garden going in the one measely week of nice weather we've had all year, and Forsaken (which is my main focus) this one kind of was put on the back burner.</p><p>But I've returned for the final chapter! </p><p>John and Arthur have made up, for now. Until the next big blowout, because lets be real - they're brothers at heart and will ALWAYS have something stupid to fight over. It's the way of life. </p><p>But I hope there was enough sweetness in this to make your day bright :)</p><p>Until next story, you all take care!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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